Six Months
by Skiaria
Summary: That Dean sold his soul is taking a serious toll on Sam, and their relationship is strained until it breaks. Sam won't stop trying to find a way to save his brother and in the process is losing himself. Post AHBL.
1. Chapter 1

7

Disclaimer: Nope. Don't own the copyrights to the Boys. But thank you Kripke for such fab characters and letting us play in your universe!!

Rating is for some bad-boy language.

My first Supernatural, my first submitted. Hope you enjoy!

———————————————————————————

**Six Months**

_Chapter 1_

Dean Winchester slid the key into the hotel lock, twisted, and the door opened with a noisy creak. He grinned to himself, ready for the annoyed look he was sure his brother would give him. It was 9 am and he'd had very nice night with the bartender Dahlia, and that was after a very successful evening of pool hustling and an extremely profitable poker game. He'd taken in about 650 dollars all said and done. On the way to the hotel he'd stopped at the donut shop and gotten himself a bag of his favorite jelly-filled donuts and a large, super-sized coffee. He hadn't bothered to bring any back for Sam since Sam had promised he'd be up at dawn and ready.

Light filtered in from the curtain and poured through the door. Dean paused in the doorway, his eyes narrowing as his brow creased. Sam was sitting at the computer, his chin on his chest, snoring softly.

Dean swore under his breath. He was ready to be on the road, ready to get to the next hunt, a haunted theater in Nekkers, Indiana. He'd already showered at Dahlia's place and just needed to change over into some clean clothes. He'd expected Sam to be ready as well. Sam had told Dean he was going to turn in early and didn't want to join him at the bar. Instead, it was the same scene. Again. They'd been fighting about it on and off for the past three months.

Dean set the coffee and donuts on the table and nudged Sam's shoulder. Sam jerked awake, his eyes wild and wide as he struggled to get his feet under him.

"Dude, easy. It's just me."

"Wha…?" Sam mumbled as his surroundings seeped into his sleep-laden brain. "Dean. What-What time is it?"

"A little after 9 am. Checkout is at 10. Get your shower." He paused, sighing to himself. He could go get coffee and something from the gas station across the street. "Breakfast is there."

Sam stood and stretched, then ran a hand through his dark hair. "What time did you get in this morning?"

"What time did you fall asleep?"

Sam shrugged as he picked up the coffee. "I don't know. Maybe 4." He took a sip of the coffee and almost spit it back out. He liked his coffee with crème and preferably, 2 sugars. Dean hadn't gotten this for him. It was Dean's coffee. Black and strong enough to burn a hole in your stomach. Sam glared at him. "You just got in."

Dean shrugged. Ah, there was that annoyed look he'd hoped for. "One of us has to have enough fun for two. Shower. Now. We need to be on the road."

"Where?"

"Indiana, remember?"

Sam began to shake his head then stopped. "Theater?"

Dean nodded sharply as he peeled off his shirt, then sat down on the edge of the bed. He couldn't bring himself to look at Sam as he untied his boot's laces. Sam had lost weight, had dark circles under his eyes, and looked gaunt and unhealthy. Dean heard the bathroom door close and the shower turn on and ground his teeth. He finished changing clothes then went over to the computer and clicked it out of hibernate mode. After punching in the password, he scanned the website. Some site in French about demons. Dean could make out a little from his knowledge of Latin and it looked like it was pure sophomoric garbage. Sam was tilting at windmills and they both knew it. They weren't going to find an out. Besides, if he even tried to worm his way out, Sam would drop dead; the demon had promised him that. He never should have told Sam. He should have just lied to him, told him he found some faith healer, some shaman, something other than the bitter truth that he was following in Dad's footsteps, all the way to Hell. His brother was safe. His brother was alive. And so far at least, Sammy hadn't gone all darkside on him. Sam had gotten moodier, crankier, and Dean admitted reluctantly to himself, meaner.

Sam—master-of-hesitation, feel-good-crap-Sam—was disappearing. His only focus was on just getting the job done so he could get back to the computer, back to searching for an out for Dean. Sitting at the computer at all hours, he was searching for clues, researching old texts, old legends, even fairy tales. Meanwhile, Sam had grown distant and mute. Drives to hunts were becoming more and more silent, the rumble of the car periodically punctuated with keystrokes made by Sam rather than pleasant banter between brothers.

Dean shoved his dirty clothes into his backpack and then began packing up Sam's stuff. He left Sam's bag on the still made bed and walked out to the Impala, his duffel over his shoulder. The sky was clouding up, looking as dark as his mood. It was going to be a nasty drive. He hoped the ghost was a bastard. He wanted something to shoot at, something to pummel. He wanted his damned perks.

He was leaning against the car door, sipping god-awful coffee from the Exxon station and washing away the taste of packaged powdered donuts, when Sam came out of the room with his duffel, computer, and coffee. He'd already eaten one donut and was finishing off the second, a bubble of grape jelly at the corner of his mouth. Damn, they'd sure looked good. His dark hair was still wet and practically dripping.

"Got everything?" Dean asked him.

"Yeah."

"Key," Dean said.

After Sam laid his duffel into the backseat and set the computer on the passenger's seat, he dug into the pocket of his jeans and extracted the key. He tossed it to his brother. Dean caught it and headed to the office to check out. When Dean got back, Sam was already in the passenger's seat, computer open, reading files he'd downloaded the night previous. Dean reached in and flipped the computer closed.

"Give it a damned rest!"

Sam glared at his brother. "We've got six months, Dean."

"No. _I've_ got six months. And I know what the damned date is."

"I swore to you, I'd get you out of this. I'll find a way," Sam said.

"What if you don't?"

"I will!" Sam said determinedly and re-opened the computer.

Dean threw his hands up and walked around to the driver's side and got in, slamming the door as he did. It would be another silent drive to another hunt. He ejected Motorhead from the tape player and slid in Black Sabbath's Heaven and Hell, cranked it up, and put the car in gear. The car burned rubber as it left the parking lot.

The car door Sam was sleeping against opened and Sam woke as he tumbled out of the car. Startled to instant awareness, he looked around, tense and ready to fight. It was night and they were parked in the driveway of an old two story house with its lights on. He looked up and saw Dean standing over him.

"Jerk," he muttered.

When Dean didn't respond with the expected "Bitch", he looked up but Dean was already grabbing Sam's duffel out of the back seat. Sam got to his feet and brushed his grit-covered hands on his jeans. "Where are we?"

"A friend of Dad's. Her name is Tabitha."

"Why?"

Dean shoved the duffel into Sam's chest. "Because you're staying here."

"What? Why?"

Dean looked up at his brother. "Because you're no good to me anymore."

"What do you mean?" Sam huffed.

Dean reached in and grabbed the computer, slid it into its case, and set it beside Sam. He struggled to try to put everything into words and gave up with a shrug. "You've lost your edge. I can't watch out for you and watch my back and whatever I'm hunting, too. You haven't slept more than a few hours a night in the past six months. You—" Dean choked back his anger. "You're better off here. Then my hunts won't be interrupting your damned obsession to break a deal that can't be broken. Tabitha has a spare room."

Dean gave his brother a last look, walked around to the driver's side, got in and started the car. Sam tossed his duffel on the ground and ripped open the door. "Dean, wait!"

Dean put the car in gear but kept his foot on the brake. "Shut the door, Sam."

"No! You need me."

"Sammy, you're not here anymore. You're off on your quest to try to break a deal with a demon."

"I'm going to find a way to save you," Sam said.

Dean's lips pressed together, sick to death of that phrase. He sighed in frustration. "Sam, I've been having dreams ever since the hospital. Just bits and pieces, but I think I've pretty much put them together. I remember when I almost died, when Dad….when I met the reaper. She told me I was on borrowed time. I was _suppose_ to die from that electrocution. I'm alive because I stole someone else's life. Then I stole from life again, when Dad gave up everything for me." A smirk slid to Dean's lips. "But if you don't bother to live, what was the point of the deal _I_ made? I can't watch you kill yourself because of me. I already saw you die once. That was enough. You're just a geek. You've got a chance at a normal life when I'm gone. I'm a freak. I've got nothing left, Sammy. Just you. And now you're gone, too."

"Dean…"

Dean goosed the accelerator enough that the Sam was knocked down and away. The black Impala rolled down the drive and the open door clicked close.

"Dean!" Sam screamed and scrambled to his feet. He watched as the tail lights disappeared down the road with a rumble.

Dean didn't slow down for forty miles. Sam had called him repeatedly on his cell phone and Dean finally shut it off, tired of listening to the ring. Dean had wanted to lob the phone out the window but restrained himself. There were too many important numbers in there. Maybe after Indiana he'd go see Cassie. What would he tell her? That he wanted to see her again? That was the truth. That in six months he'd face the fires and tortures of Hell? He'd sent many a pissed off evil to there. His resume was filled with them. And they'd probably all want a piece of him. They'd all want their turn. And they'd have eternity to gnaw their pleasure into his flesh and bone. He gripped the wheel tighter, afraid his hands would start shaking. When he had time to stop and think about what his non-future held, sometimes he couldn't keep it all under control and the reality would swell over him. His father had done it for him. Given his life to save Dean. But he hadn't had days and weeks and months to know of his approaching destiny. Dean had sold his soul to the evil bastards he hunted. Still hunted. He was going to burn for all eternity. Eternity. He was 28. What did he understand of eternity? He wondered how long it would take for him to go insane from the torment.

He felt dinner shift restlessly. "Crap," he muttered, cursing Sam for not being there, for not being the rock he needed, the distraction from these terrible thoughts. He pulled the car over and hastily opened the door, puking his guts out. He finally sat back up. He folded his arms across the Impala's hard steering wheel and laid his head on them. There weren't tears. It wasn't in him to cry over a choice he'd made. He knew what he'd done. He'd been so desperate that any price was worth it. He'd lost Mom. He'd lost Cassie. He'd lost Dad. To lose Sam was beyond bearable. Better he just take out his 9mm, stick it in his mouth and blow his fucking brains out. But not in the car. He gave a sad soft laugh. No, he wouldn't do it inside of her. Wouldn't ruin her that way. But he hadn't opted for the gun. He'd chosen the only route he knew could work. Had worked for his father.

He leaned back in the seat. Had he even looked heavenward? There was a God…wasn't there? His Name chased demons out. So why did God keep stealing those he loved away from him? Wasn't he doing God's work, in some really fucked up, twisted way? One of God's soldiers? But Sammy was one of theirs. One of the Demon's. Fed demon blood and all that crap. But Sammy was a good kid. Not a demon. Not evil. The hunts were making him dark; Dean saw it happening and tried to ignore it. Maybe that was part of why he'd wanted Sam safely at Tabitha's. Even if it meant he went the rest of the way alone.

Tabitha. He smiled a little to himself. She was a cool old lady. Dad said she'd hunted in her day. Was a kick-ass wiccan witch, too. Fact was, when she answered the door, she gasped and told Dean he was marked. Made him spill the story. He gave the down and dirty ten-cent version. Told her about Sam, too. How he was marked. Tabitha seemed concerned, but then smiled and told him to go get Sammy. She'd get the bed made up. Hell, maybe between Tabitha and Sam, they would come up with a way to break the deal.

Dean took a swig of water and rinsed out his foul tasting mouth. It was the first time he'd actually puked over it. He'd felt like it half a dozen times, but he'd never let it get to him. Not like tonight. Hell, maybe it had just been a bad mini-mart burger. He preferred that possibility to the alternative. He gave a slow grin to the night. Well, he had six more months to make a few more enemies that would want their turn. _Best get to adding some more evil bastards to the list_, he thought at he put the Impala back into gear. He slid a fresh tape into the player, something that would keep him awake and make him forget that he only had six months to eternity.


	2. Chapter 2

17

Summary:

That Dean sold his soul is taking a serious toll on Sam, and their relationship is strained until it breaks. Sam won't stop trying to find a way to save his brother and in the process is losing himself. Post AHBL.

Disclaimer: Nope. Don't own the copyrights to the Boys. But thank you Kripke for such fab characters and letting us play in your universe!!

Rating is for some bad-boy language.

My first Supernatural, my first submitted. Hope you enjoy!

———————————————————————————

**Six Months**

_Chapter 2_

Sam pulled out his cell and quick dialed Dean. The lights of the Impala were just disappearing in the distance as the phone rang. When it switched over to voice mail Sam fumed.

"Dammit Dean, we need to stay together," he said.

He called again. Again he got the recording.

"Dean will you answer me?"

"C'mon Dean, come back here."

"I'll just steal a car and follow you. You know that."

The next five messages would have made a sailor blush. Sam glared at Dean's name in the cell's phone book. Dean had probably shut his phone off and likely wouldn't listen to the messages for a good couple hours.

He couldn't believe Dean had left him in the middle of night, in the middle of God-knew-where. Did he think Sam was working insane hour after insane hour because he wanted to work himself into a stupor every night? While Dean hustled and drank, Sam plowed through everything he could lay his hands on that was even remotely related to demons and deals. The loss of Ash and Caleb and Pastor Jim, and all the others—so much damned knowledge lost. All Dean wanted to do was drink and look for the next hunt. Anytime Sam tried to engage him in conversation about breaking the deal, Dean would change the subject or clam up and stew, or crank the music louder. Sam had finally given up trying to get any help out of him. Even so, he'd sworn he'd stand by his brother through it all, and he would find a way. He had to. He just couldn't bear to lose his brother too. If Dean were just to die, that would be horrible, but he could have eventually lived with that. To know that Dean would go to Hell—forever—oh, God, no. Not that. Not for him. Sam grabbed his duffel and the precious computer from the ground and looked around. Tabitha—that was her name, wasn't it?—had a small white pickup truck. That would have to do. He strode toward it. He'd catch up to Dean and knock some stupid sense into his jack-ass of a sibling. This wasn't the time for them to be apart. Time was too short and too precious.

When Sam reached for the door of the truck, he heard a woman's voice whisper in his ear, "Wouldn't do that, Boy."

Sam jumped and looked around, his hand going to the knife inside of his coat, but no one was beside him. The porchlight came on and a woman waved at him. "C'mon, Sammy," she called to him. "You're not going anywhere tonight."

Sam ground his teeth, looked once more at the truck, then gave a frustrated sigh and headed up toward the woman. She'd already gone back inside by the time he climbed the stone steps. He pulled open the screen door and walked inside the cozy house. The wooden screen door thudded close behind him.

"Ma'am?" he called out.

"In the kitchen, Young'un. Come on in and have some coffee with me. And shut the door, if you don't mind. Bit of a nip to that air tonight."

Sam closed the door, flipped the deadbolt out of habit, and carried his belongings into the kitchen. An older woman, probably in her late sixties or early seventies sat at the table, two steaming coffee mugs in front of her. A sleek black cat lay on the table by her arm and watched Sam with a calm, green-eyed gaze. The woman was slender and light wisps of blonde highlighted her short silver hair. She wore a celtic knot necklace with a red stone in its center and a gold ring with some design Sam didn't recognize. She was dressed in a wrinkled tie-dyed t-shirt, sweatpants, and slippers. Sam glanced around the simply adorned kitchen and saw the clock. It said 3:15.

He stood dumbly, trying to get his brain around the fact Dean had left him at a stranger's house at 3:15 in the morning. Hell, he didn't even know what city he was in, let alone what state.

"I guess you know Dean and my dad?" he finally asked.

"Sit your tired butt down, kiddo." She waved him to the chair across from her. "Yes. Sorry about John."

"How did you meet them?" Sam asked as he set his two bags on the floor and slid into the chair. He was surprised to find his knees didn't bump the underneath of the table and that the table was at a comfortable height to lean on. It's wooden top was scarred and stained through years of abuse.

"Oh, Pastor Jim sent John my way once I'd retired from hunting," Tabitha said as she scratched her cat's ears. The cat's purr vibrated the table.

"You were a hunter?" Sam asked, surprised. He realized that he thought old hunters just simply went on one-too-many hunts and that was it. He had never really considered anyone managed to live through it to retire.

"Oh, yes," Tabitha said. She took a sip of her coffee and seeing his expectant look, continued. "My parents were killed by a wight. A hunter tried to save them but was only able to save me. When I was fifteen, I tracked the hunter down and started learning the trade. I stopped when I was sixty-five and a nasty little poltergeist almost did me in. That son-of-a-bitch put me in the hospital for four months. I came out of it blind in one eye," she tapped below her bloodshot right eye, "and it left me with a limp that needs a cane if I go very far. I decided it was high time I retire and become a consultant." She chuckled. "Or sometimes a baby-sitter."

Sammy scowled at her jibe.

She laughed. "You've got the same hurt look your daddy would get when I poked fun as his ex-Marine butt."

"Ma'am, I really need to go after my brother," Sam said as patiently as he could. He dredged up one of his best puppy-dog looks.

"No, you really need to spend a few days here and get your priorities straight," she said, ignoring his pleading face. "Dean-O will be busy doing research and sorting out a strategy to handle the ghost he's after. He won't need you for a good few days, and I'd wager a little apart time might do you two a world of good."

"How would you know what we need?" Sam snapped, his pensive, pained look gone in an instant.

She straightened suddenly and snapped back, "You take that tone with me again young man and I'll show you I can still put a brat over my knee no matter how big he is."

Sam blinked, a sudden chill going through him as she had "that tone", the one his father would use when Sam and Dean were getting into trouble and a belt across the bottom was only one more infraction away. "Yes, ma'am, sorry, ma'am," came out of him before he realized it.

"John certainly did a good job teaching you boys manners," she said, pleased. "Now just cool your jets, Sam. Dean will be fine. He won't be hasty without you there at his back." She motioned to him to try his coffee.

He stared at the creamy mocha and reluctantly sampled it. It was just the way he liked it and a hint of a vanilla aftertaste added that little extra soothing goodness.

She pushed herself to her feet. Sam gaped, certain she matched him in height. She pulled out some plates, put some cake on each and after half a dozen seconds in the microwave, slid a piece of warmed gingerbread in front of him with a healthy dollop of whip cream. After setting a small bowl of whip cream on the floor for her cat, she returned to the table with her own piece of cake. The black cat wasted no time in getting to the bowl of whip cream.

"Now Dean tells me he brokered a deal to bring you back from the dead. And that you are obsessed with trying to break that deal," Tabitha said, and waved him to start eating.

Sam nodded mutely as he slowly cut off a piece of the gingerbread with his fork. He watched as a dribble of cream crept down the side of the warm cake.

"And you've got some bit of talent you think came from the demon blood."

"He told you that?" Sam gasped.

"Of course. He trusts me. He wouldn't have left you here if he didn't. Now you listen up, Sammy. Your mom had the gift, so I really don't think any demon blood caused it. The demon blood might have made you a little stronger, might have made it so you could use it easier, and it surely made it easier for that yellow-eyed bastard to track you, but plenty of folk have the gift without it coming from a drink of demon blood."

"He said I was one of his. And I'm the only one left of that generation," Sam said quietly.

"And God's gift to you is choice. It's still your choice, Sam. Everyone has two destinies, one dark, the other not. That choice will always be yours. Sometimes it can be awfully hard to see the two paths until your partway down one or the other and the right choice just isn't always the easiest choice."

"It seems to be getting harder," Sam said. He still remembered the pleasure he felt when he put the bullet into Jake. He still savored that feeling and part of him knew he shouldn't. Every time he destroyed a ghost or other evil, that feeling of joy seemed to well up inside him and fill him. And every time, he saw the concerned look in his brother's eyes.

"Yes, I imagine it does. You've been pushed awfully hard down that dark path. The more that comes between you and Dean, the harder it will be to keep coming back to the light. The two of you need to resolve your differences. You need each other."

"I know." Sam said with a sigh. "You said you knew my mom?" Sam asked her, looking up from his cake and meeting her blue eyes. He slid a bite of cake into his mouth. His eyebrows lifted, startled. Man-oh-man, he'd forgotten how good gingerbread really was.

"Not well, but I'd met her," Tabitha said with a nod.

"Mom, she knew the demon," Sam said.

"Really? How do you know that?" Tabitha asked, surprised.

"The demon showed me the night she died. She recognized him. Was she…a hunter?" He really didn't know anything about his mother, and at this point, the news wouldn't surprise him.

"Sweet little Mary? Heaven's, no," she said with a laugh. "At least, if she was, I didn't know about it. I do know she had gone up a big bad evil once though, helping a friend in trouble. Sounds like the evil was one and the same." 

Sam considered this and wondered if maybe, just maybe, her death wasn't all his fault. Maybe whatever she had done had marked her and therefore him. "Was the friend you?"

Tabitha shook her head. "No. It was the hunter who saved my life, who trained me." She paused to take another bite of her cake then said, "Dean's worried about you, Sam. You know that."

Sam leaned back, frustration clear in his voice as he spoke. "I just don't understand. He doesn't seem to want me to find a way to break the deal. He hardly helps with the research. All he wants to do is hunt the next big bad to raise its fugly head."

Tabitha took a long, slow sip of her coffee as she studied him. "I've spent a bit of time here and there with that brother of yours. I imagine it's his way of dealing. He's as scared as you, I'm sure. Probably worse. If you haven't been there to talk with him, even about the next hunt, he's probably having a hard time coping. Eternity in Hell is a mighty long time. Enough to scare anyone into fits. Looking for a way out just throws it up in his face that his times running out."

"But I've got to find a way to save him. It's all my fault. I didn't make sure he was dead and he got up and I felt the knife and then…then I woke back up, and Dean…." Sam swallowed back the sudden emotion he tried to keep locked securely away in a deep closet of his mind. "Dean told me what he'd done. What's dead should stay dead. He always says that, and he could hardly deal with the fact Dad went to Hell to save him, and hated that he had to carry that burden, and now he expects me to and, oh, God, I just—he's going Hell because of _me_ and he's a good man, a good soul and—" Sam struggled to stop the sudden babble of words spewing from him like a geyser.

"Sam," Tabitha said, reaching across the table and taking his hand gently in her own. "Just take a deep breath. What's done is done and can't be undone. You have to look ahead."

"He's got six months left. He's only got six months!" Sam said. He fought back his tears as he clutched her hand.

Squeezing his hand reassuringly, she gave him an understanding smile. "You all have had a tough road you've had to walk. Well, it wasn't the smartest of Dean, but at least he bought a bit of time, a far sight better than John managed."

"And that time is running out." Sam pushed himself to his feet and began to pace. "I haven't found anything, not really. Legend and lore, but nothing that's a deal breaker." He turned and faced her. "You were a hunter. Do you know anything, anything at all that might help?" Sam asked, this time the pleading in his eyes reflecting the very anguish in his soul.

Tabitha gave a shrug. "I know my share of magicks, of strategies, of secrets. When a body deals with devils, the honor of the oath will foil most blades aiming to sever the deal. Let me think on it. Now you finish that cake and let's put you to bed. We'll both think better on a few more hours of sleep and a good breakfast in the morning."

"I'm hardly going to sleep after the coffee, ma'am. And my brother needs me. I need to be on my way."

She waved a hand. "Bah. That's decaf, m'boy. I'm not allowed the real stuff anymore. And Dean will be in Nekkers late tonight. He's not going anywhere that he'll need you. And you'll sleep just fine. Your bedroom is through the door under the stairs and the bathroom is beside it. This house is on consecrated land and has more sigils and protection runes than ol' Solomon put in his book. You can sleep in safety and comfort. And that bed in there? Made for us tall folk." She winked and pushed herself to her feet. She slid her empty plate and mug into the sink and picked up the empty bowl the cat had eaten from and set it beside the others.

"If you're not going to finish your cake, git, young 'un. To bed. Way past your bedtime."

"I'm 24. I don't have a bedtime," Sam said.

"Okay, way past my bedtime and I have the hearing of a hunter. You creep around or tippy-tap on that computer and I'll be awake in an instant. To bed. That's an order, young man."

"No," Sam said firmly. "I need to go after Dean."

She stepped up to stare eye-to-eye with him, her blue eyes fairly blazing. "Now you listen to me, Samuel Winchester, your brother will be fine. We will deal with this in the morning. Maybe I can come up with something that might help, but you need sleep and I need sleep. Chasing after your brother in the middle of the night isn't going to help anything or anyone. Now you get your butt to bed. Do I make myself clear, young man?"

Sam's lips pressed together. He felt dead tired and honestly, he knew he wouldn't get more than a few hours on the road before he'd have to pull over and get some sleep. "Yes, Ma'am," he finally said, relenting, as a yawn crept out of him. All his energy just seemed to drain away as he picked up his belongings, and slowly shuffled into the next room and the bedroom beyond.

For the first time in months, Sam found himself drifting slowly into wakefulness. Muscles he didn't realize had been wound tight as springs seemed to have uncoiled and he felt relaxed. His stomach rumbled loudly and he realized not only did he have to piss like he hadn't gone in ten days, but he was hungrier than he could remember being in a long time. The window showed it was still dark outside and he made his way to the bathroom and took care of business. He didn't want to wake the old lady, but he really felt like he needed a good hot shower, so he turned the water on and climbed in.

After his shower, he wrapped the tan towel around his waist and turned to the sink, pleased to find a razor and shaving cream set out for him. When he started to shave, he paused, looking at himself in the mirror, maybe really for the first time in weeks. When had his cheeks gotten those hollows? When had his chest gotten so thin and his body so gaunt? The stitches he'd gotten from the nasty wound he'd taken in the fight with the skinwalker on their last hunt were due out three days ago. He just hadn't gotten around to it, and the black thread suddenly looked gruesome to him. He dug around until he found some small scissors and nipped the threads then pulled them out. It was going to be a wicked scar. It had been stupid on his part, he reluctantly admitted. The skinwalker shouldn't have gotten a piece of him like it had. When he went down, Dean nearly lost it. From Dean's angle, apparently it had looked like a lethal blow. Sam washed over the scar, then wiped his face clean of the remaining shaving cream. Maybe Dean had been right. Maybe he had lost his edge. He'd just been so damned tired for so damned long that anything beyond doing research and backing up his brother on a hunt just didn't matter.

The smell of bacon distracted his mind from his somber thoughts. He peeked out the door and saw that the kitchen light was on, and he could hear Tabitha clanking pans and talking to her cat, who was apparently named Gutenburg. He slipped back into his bedroom in just the towel, shut the door, and turned on the light. His clothes had all been washed and neatly folded by his duffel. Hell, even his duffel bag had been washed free of the musty smell it had taken on recently. He growled, troubled that she'd taken it upon herself to paw through his belongings. And when the hell had that happened? It couldn't be later 6 or 7 AM. She must have snuck in as soon as he'd fallen asleep and taken his stuff, and then been up the rest of the night washing them.

"Well, what's done is done," he muttered and after dressing, repacked his duffel. Everything seemed present and accounted for. He screwed down his annoyance and headed into the kitchen.

"Ma'am?" Sam said, standing at the door to the kitchen.

"For God's sake, Sam, my name is Tabitha. Or my friends will sometimes call me Bitty."

"Yes, ma'am. Tabitha," he corrected himself, then asked curiously. "Bitty?"

She looked over her shoulder and grinned at him. Her hair glistened, freshly washed and was still dripping. "Yes, a joke about my height." She wrinkled her nose. "I'm sure you understand."

Sam laughed a little and nodded. "Oh, yeah. Do I ever. What time is it?"

She waved at the clock. "Five A.M."

"I only slept for 2 hours? It sure felt like more." Sam said. He eyed the coffee, grabbed a mug sitting on the counter, and poured himself a cup.

"No, Sam. More like 26."

"What?" he gasped, nearly spilling his coffee.

She laughed. "I thought for certain I'd wake you with my puttering about yesterday."

"I gotta get going after Dean. How could you let me sleep-" Sam said, hastily setting down his coffee and heading for the door and the bedroom beyond. The door slammed shut before he quite reached it.

"Hold those horses." Tabitha said sternly. "Dean called me yesterday. He's fine. The library was closed yesterday, it being Sunday. Today's the first day he'll been able to get into any records. I told you, you've got at least a few days to catch up with him."

He spun on her. "You slammed that door, didn't you?"

She grinned mischievously. "Funny thing about this house. Sometimes doors just open and close of their own accord."

"You did it, didn't you?" he demanded. Sam suddenly felt naked without Dean by his side. Frankly, he was surprised he'd slept as well as he had. He hadn't ever slept well when he was away from his family, at least not until Jessica. How could Dean leave him here with someone clearly with power like this? What if she was dangerous? What if she was like Ava? What if she'd turned since Dean had been here last?

She gave a slow shake of her head. "Now you know, there sure are times I wish I had Missouri's talents. Must have been some interesting collection of thoughts racing through that brain of yours, if your face was any indication. Yes, I have a few small talents, but they aren't from any psychic abilities. Not like yours anyhow. So just calm down and stop looking at me as if I'd just grown horns."

"How do I know you haven't? You can shut doors without touching them, you can whisper in my ear from across the yard. You went through my stuff. And why should I believe Dean called you when he didn't call me?"

She looked heavenward and shook her head. "You raised yourself quite a son, there, John. I can see now why you and he butted heads all the time." She began stacking pancakes onto a plate. When she finished she turned to face him. "You want to go? Go. Don't let the door hit you in the ass. Dean left you here because he thought maybe I could help. If you don't want that help, suits me. I've got plenty of other things I can be doing. But don't think you'll be stealing my truck or anyone else's in this town. I can see to that, just out of spite, m'boy." She gave him a tight smile. "As far as your duffel, it stank to high-heaven. You had socks stuffed in the bottom that had practically petrified. Definitely putrefied. And Boy, didn't your father teach you to keep your knives sharp? If you had to cut anything more dangerous than butter, you might have been in trouble. I took 'em out to the garage and gave all a much needed sharpening. John would have had a fit if he'd seen those knives. And if you don't believe Dean called me, right there is the caller ID. Check it yourself. His was the last call I got."

Sam walked over to the caller ID and hit the review button. Dean's cell number was there, at 9:31 pm last night. He felt his stomach clench and stared at the blue linoleum floor. "I'm sorry, Tabitha. I-I'm all twisted up inside. Every fiber in me screams I need to be going after my brother. I don't want him out there alone. I don't want…" he trailed off.

"…to be alone either? Like you'll be in six months?" she asked gently.

He swallowed hard and nodded.

"C'mon. Nothing brightens a man's spirits like a good breakfast," she said and waved him into the dining room, then picked up the plates of fresh pancakes and bacon.

After she set the plates on the table she turned and, shaking a finger at him, she scolded, "And I just have to get this off my chest. Your weapons are your lifeline. You don't take care of them, they can't take care of you. Don't you ever let them get in that sort shape again, young man."

"You sound like my father."

Her scold gave way to a smirk. "I'd take that as a compliment if I didn't know how much your and you father fought. Now let's eat. I'm hungry. Then we'll sit down and after you tell me what all you've unearthed, maybe I can fill in some holes, and my scrying gave me some ideas. This really is the best thing you can do for Dean today. Come tomorrow, maybe we can put you on the road to Nekkers, okay?"

He frowned but slowly nodded. If she could offer anything that might help, it may well be worth the delay. "Scrying?" he asked.

She grinned. "Wiccan Ways, Sammy Boy. I'm a witch. But don't worry, I'm a Glenda."


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Nope. Don't own the copyrights to the Boys. But thank you Kripke for such fab characters and letting us play in your universe!!

Rating is for some bad-boy language.

No longer my first submitted as "Blood Debt" hijacked my computer. This story takes place 6 months after "All Hell Breaks Loose". Since I started it before 3rd season started, I'll leave it as it is and not try to adjust for anything in 3rd Season. Sorry it took so long to get back to it. Life got in the way. Hopefully the rest of the story will spill out much faster than this chapter did, although it's not cooperating as well as I'd like. Another Supernatural story (Dragonfly) is trying to likewise hijack my computer away, but I can't just leave this story unfinished! And it looks like it'll be a little longer than the 5 Chapters I'd originally planned. Darn muse!

—Folks, my sincerest apologies. I inadvertently grabbed an older version of Chapter 3 when I posted it. This version is corrected, and I've gone back and corrected a little of Chapter 1. I was in a rush to get Chapter 3 posted before I left for vacation and didn't check it like I should have. Thank you kindly for not pointing out my terrible errors and problems. This newer version has some serious changes made and a lot that's been deleted, much of which will show up in following chapters. Again, terribly sorry for the mix up. For those who've already read this chapter, I would recommend re-reading this newer version as it adds some new twists to the tale.

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**Six Months**

_Chapter 3_

"So you're from the Indianapolis Star," Delilah the waitress said with a smile. "What in the world are you doing in our little town?" She set a dark brown coffee cup on his table and filled it, dropping two creamers beside the cup.

Dean shook his head and pushed them back towards her as he smiled at the older brunette. "I like mine black, thanks. We're doing a series on haunted rural Indiana towns. My sources indicate you've got a community theater here that's haunted, the O'Sullivan Playhouse."

Delilah laughed. "Oh, that old place. It's haunted all right. Fact is," she paused and sobered suddenly, "we've had a couple deaths there and people blame old Mrs. O'Sullivan for them. Poor dear is all upset that the theater is closing down if you ask me."

An older man at the counter of the diner rumbled, "Ah, O'Sullivan's isn't getting closed down, Delilah. That's rubbish."

"Coop, Hattie says the council is going to close it," Delilah countered.

"Hattie needs her hearing aid checked. The council said the theater was closed just until the inspectors make sure it's safe. It'll re-open in a few weeks."

Dean slid out of the booth, taking his coffee cup with him, and stood by a stool next to the older man at the counter. The man, probably in his late sixties, had a grizzled look but his blues eyes sparkled in his weather-tanned face. He wore a light brown jacket with a white patch that had "Cooper" embroidered in red thread. From the grease under the man's nails, on his t-shirt, and on his jeans, Dean guessed he was a mechanic. "You mind if I join you?"

Coop measured him, taking in his button down shirt, jeans, motorcycle boots and leather jacket. He gave a slight harrumph. "Nah. What's your name?"

"Eric Bloom of the Indianapolis Star," Dean said and settled onto the stool, placing his coffee on the green formica counter.

"Eric Bloom. Like the guitarist?" Coop asked.

"A BOC fan?" Dean said, surprised. He gave the man an almost embarrassed smile followed by a shrug. "Yeah, my father liked Blue Oyster Cult. Fortunately, most kids at my school never made the connection. So you know a lot about the theater, Coop?"

A smug smile slid onto Coop's face. "Yup."

Dean waited but Coop turned back to his coffee and took a sip.

"Would you tell me about it?" Dean prodded, squashing his annoyance and calling up his best pleasant smile. He turned his round stool so he could see the man more easily.

"You know, the blueberry pie here is really good," Coop said and gave Dean a sidelong glance.

"I bet it is." A piece of pie was a whole lot cheaper of a bribe than most bribes he'd ponied up. He waved Delilah over. "Two slices of blueberry—wait, you have strawberry pie?" Dean said looking in at the pies on display. He tried to ignore the fact that one of Sam's favorite pies was blueberry. It hurt too much to think about.

"Sure do," Delilah said and wiped at a nonexistent dirty spot on the counter with a wet rag.

"Blueberry for Coop. I'll take a piece of that strawberry pie."

"We've got strawberry shortcake too." Delilah said as she set aside the wash cloth and pulled out the remains of the blueberry pie. There were only two pieces left.

Dean hesitated. "Shortcake," he finally said. He thought back to the strawberry shortcake Pastor Jim would always make for him when he stayed at the farm as a boy. The strawberries came fresh out the garden and were the sweetest, juiciest strawberries he'd ever eaten. Pastor Jim's shortcake was likewise perfect, a magnificent compliment to the strawberries, not too sweet and with a hint of vanilla. Dean liked strawberries even more than grape-filled jelly donuts. And that was saying something. He sighed to himself. He'd never have Pastor Jim's shortcake again. The demon Meg had seen to that.

"Whip cream?" Delilah asked as she warmed the blueberry pie and pulled a half gallon of vanilla ice cream from the small freezer below the counter.

"Yes," Dean said. "A lot." He supposed it would be Reddi-whip or something, but he didn't care. Nothing would match Pastor Jim's homemade whipped cream so he'd take what he could get.

She placed the warmed pie in front of Coop, put a scoop of ice cream beside it, and, after returning the ice cream to the freezer, retreated to the kitchen to fetch the shortcake.

Coop dug into the pie. "You don't know what you're missing, Eric. Blueberry kicks ass over strawberry shortcake."

"My little brother," Dean felt a pang of guilt over leaving Sam with Tabitha, "would agree with you, but for me, there's nothing finer than fresh strawberries. So about the O'Sullivan Playhouse?" Dean asked, trying to focus on the job and not his abandoned brother. He trusted Tabitha as much as he trusted Bobby or Pastor Jim, but he still wished his brother was there with him.

"It used to be the O'Sullivan Theater, back in the day. The council renamed it the Playhouse some years ago, but we all still think of it as O's Theater. Maureen O'Sullivan built it for her husband, Jack."

Dean nodded, recalling some of the research he'd sifted through. "I read about him. Stories say he was a good actor. People would come from all over to see him."

"That's what they say," Coop agreed. "He was an actor out East but wanted a quieter life after he and Maureen got hitched. They never did have children though Maureen loved kids. She'd have special plays just for them and she set up scholarships for those that wanted to go to college."

"The theater was built on the site of a hospital that burned down, wasn't it?" Dean asked. He gave Delilah a smile when she placed the large plate with the heaping of strawberry shortcake on it. Dean sampled it and grinned. Oh yeah. He loved small town diners. They usually knew how to do food right, especially desserts. It wasn't Pastor Jim's, but it still ranked pretty high on his strawberry shortcake scale.

Coop nodded. "Yeah. About fifteen folk died in it. There's an old wood and tin plaque at the theater that gives their names."

Dean looked over at the old man. "So who haunts the theater?" He scooped up another mouthful of strawberry shortcake. He decided the whip cream was probably extra creamy Cool Whip. It didn't have the fluffy texture of the aerosol canned Reddi-whip.

"Rumors say Mrs. O. There'll be a cool breeze and you'll catch a smell of honeysuckle. They say it was her favorite perfume. Sometimes you can hear children laughing. Sometimes you can hear steps on the stage. Sometimes doors open and close of their own accord."

Dean pulled out a notebook and, after flipping to some blank pages about a third of the way in, made some notes. "Were children killed in that hospital fire?"

"Yeah," he said with a grimace. "Nine of 'em. One doctor, two nurses, and three soldiers of some type, too."

Dean checked the names and details he had in his notebook and made a few potential corrections. "You've had a couple deaths in the theater over the past few months, right?" He asked. He flipped back a few pages and looked at his notes. "An actor, Ken Dartmouth, fell from the balcony and died from a broken neck. Jeanie Sanders, the custodian, fell down the stairs and also died of a broken neck. A week ago, a musician, Thomas Blake, fell into the orchestra pit and died of a broken neck. Must be hard on such a small town to lose three of their own." He gave Coop a sympathetic smile. He knew he wasn't really good at it and again wished Sam was with him. This would be where Sam would pick up the conversation with his heartfelt words and sincere looks.

Coop sighed. "Jeanie was a sweet girl. She'd been custodian at O's since she was sixteen. Never any dust bunnies multiplying on her watch. She loved that old place. She also worked at the five and dime when she was younger."

"She was a strange one, she was," Delilah said.

Coop glared at Delilah. "Old women's natter," he scolded her. "Ain't a mother in town in the old days that would have any other midwife."

"She was a witch," Delilah said. "Everyone knows it. Gave predictions when a child was born. Made potions and curses and amulets."

"Yet she showed up in church every Sunday," Coop said, cocking an eyebrow at her. He shook his blueberry-coated fork at her. "And I hear tell some from your family went to her. Nothing like the pot calling the kettle black."

Delilah flushed. "Wasn't a kettle she kept, it was a caldron," she huffed. After topping off Dean's coffee, she busied herself at the other end of the counter with unneeded cleaning tasks.

Coop grinned at Dean. "She was a witch," he said softly. "She could dowse to find water, helping many a soul with a dried up well, she could fix most anything that illed a person, or knew right away if she couldn't and sent them off to a doctor. She did give predictions of a child's future at their birth and was spot on most times. People would go to her in secret and often talk bad about her in public." Coop shook his head. "She sat alone in the back of the church. But really, she was a sincere and nice person. A lot of souls turned up her funeral, a handful of people that were just passers-through that she apparently helped through her years. Frankly," he said with a sigh, "I miss her wit and her smile."

"What about the other two who died?" Dean asked, jotting down more scribbled notes. He'd hit the jackpot with Coop and knew it. If Coop wanted a blueberry pies for the next month, Dean would gladly pay enough to provide them.

"Kenny moved here a couple years ago, and 'tween you and me couldn't act his way out of a paper bag." Coop laughed at the memory. "But see, he was a pretty boy, and all the women in town would go to O's to gawk at him. I'll give the boy credit for one thing, though he didn't have an acting bone in his body, he did have a helluva singing voice. It would send the ladies into a swoon, and our Reverend finally convinced him to join the church choir. The attendance near doubled overnight." He laughed, a deep rumbling laugh that reminded Dean of his father's.

"Tommy was from the next town over and just came in for the shows," Coop continued. "He'd dated Lindsey Polan for a while and I think is" he paused with a grimace and corrected himself, "_was_ still sweet on the girl. Lindsey married Jacob Gilley, but some say Tommy and Lindsey were still having sorties and that her oldest boy ain't Jacob's." Coop shrugged. "Certainly the boy looks more like Tommy than Jacob."

"Seems a little strange, all these falls," Dean said. "Is Delilah right, people are blaming Mrs. O'Sullivan?"

"Of course. Can't just be a string of bad luck you know," he said with a snort.

"You don't believe in ghosts?" Dean asked.

"Nah," Coop said then glanced around and his voice dropped to a near whisper, "But if I did, Mrs. O wouldn't be the cause of it. She's never did nothing to no one except when she doesn't like the play and then, she just drops the curtain in the middle of the performance." He chuckled softly. "Poor Kenny had that current dropped on him half a dozen times." His voice returned to normal. "What about you Eric? You believe in ghosts?"

Dean grinned. "It's kind of in the job description. Now you know, they say a ghost can get nasty if changes are made at the place they're haunting or if the place is threatened. Anything like that going on? Are you certain the city council isn't going to close it down? Or maybe some new construction or remodeling?"

Coop finished off the last of the pie and ice cream with a satisfied sigh. "Mrs. O left the city a theater fund. The city gets fifty percent of the interest earned from that fund and eighty percent of any profit the account makes in the stock market so long as the theater remains open and the rest of the interest and profit goes to upkeep, paying the custodian and such. If the theater closes, all that money goes into the scholarship fund she set up. The city doesn't want to lose that free income. Nope. Sure, the theater's a little old, but our town couldn't afford to build a new one anyhow. We keep it up—the stage was refinished about fifteen years ago. The curtains are about three years old. The seats were re-upholstered maybe ten years ago. There's never been any problems during any of the remodels. Though you'd swear she was watching and overseeing everything, that smell of honeysuckle can get so strong."

"How is it you know so much about the history of the theater?"

Coop's lips pursed. "I'm Maureen's cousin about a half-dozen times removed and oversee the O'Sullivan Theater and scholarship funds. The money has to stay in the family so long as someone in the family is alive. We've got an investment firm in Indianapolis that manages the funds, but I control them. My daughter will take over when I'm gone or just can't do it anymore."

Not just the jackpot, but a pot of gold. "You think you could get me into the theater to get some pictures and look around?"

Coop shook his head. "Sorry, Eric. Nope. Sheriff would have my hide. It's off limits until the investigation is finished and it's passed the building inspection."

Dean sighed. Well, probably better he snuck in on his own. He got the feeling Coop was sharp enough to question his EMF detector and lack of a professional camera. But there were other leads Coop had given maybe worth investigating. "Jeanie, where'd she live?"

"Outskirts of town, in an old farmhouse on Miller Lane. My daughter took in her tiger cat, Doris, and the rest of the animals she kept have been taken in by people named in her will. Her house and everything in it was bequeathed to some stranger we haven't been able to track down. We'll probably have to hire a private investigator to find him."

"What's his name?" Dean asked.

"Robert Singer."

Dean choked on his coffee and nearly spewed it over the counter. He coughed vigorously.

Coop slapped him on the back. "You okay there, Eric?"

Dean coughed again and nodded. "Just went down the wrong pipe," he wheezed. What were the chances Robert Singer was the same Bobby that he'd known since he was a kid? _Pretty damned good if she really was a witch,_ he thought to himself. He'd call Bobby and see if he knew Jeanie.

"Thanks for all the information. I didn't get your first name." Dean cleared his throat still trying to get rid of the coffee.

"Jack, but don't you be putting my name in your paper."

Dean pushed aside his empty plate. "Sure thing. I'll just call you a local source. Where can I find you if I have any more questions?"

"Garage at the edge of town if you go west. Cooper Garage. That your Impala out there?"

Dean smiled and gave a sharp nod. "Yes, sir. She's a beaut, isn't she? Just rebuilt her a little over a year ago."

"You can learn a lot about a man by the way he takes care of his car," Coop said, looking out at the Impale approvingly. "What you got under the hood?"

"You want to take a look?" Dean asked. He could see in the old man's eyes that he did.

"Sure," he said and pushed himself to his feet.

Dean tossed a ten and a five on the counter and took the mechanic out to his baby.


	4. Chapter 4

12

Disclaimer: Nope. Don't own the copyrights to the Boys. But thank you Kripke for such fab characters and letting us play in your universe!!

Rating is for some bad-boy language.

No longer my first submitted as "Blood Debt" hijacked my computer. This story takes place 6 months after "All Hell Breaks Loose". Since I started it before 3rd season started, I'll leave it as it is and not try to adjust for anything in 3rd Season. Sorry it took so long to get back to it. Life got in the way. Hopefully the rest of the story will spill out much faster than the past few chapters did. Another Supernatural story (Dragonfly) is hijacking my computer, but I can't just leave this story unfinished! And it looks like it'll be a little longer than the 5 Chapters I'd originally planned. Darn muse!

Please note that Chapter 3 has been revised as I inadvertently grabbed an older version of Chapter 3 and posted the wrong one! My deepest apologies!

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**Six Months**

_Chapter 4_

Sam began to dig into the breakfast of crisp bacon and pancakes drenched in maple syrup. He was hungrier than he'd realized, but considering he'd slept for twenty-six hours, it wasn't a surprise.

"So you're a witch?" he said, evaluating the older woman sitting across from him. He honestly didn't know much about witches other than the nasty ones he'd encountered as a hunter. By saying she was a Glenda, as in The Wizard of Oz, she meant she was a good witch. Most witches weren't evil, he knew, but a few pretty much gave the rest a bad name. He'd certainly run into his share of anything but Glendas.

Tabitha laughed. "Yep. Taught your daddy a thing or two. Reckon you'll find a few of my concoctions in that journal of his that you've got tucked under your shirt. You know Sam, nothing's going to happen here. You really can leave that journal safely with your duffel."

He shrugged as he reached inside his shirt to pull out the worn journal. Dean and he made it a practice to keep it with them. They could lose everything else, but not that. Sam had been working on getting the journal scanned into his computer, but was only about half way through when the mess with him dying and all had happened. He hadn't gotten back to it, preferring to spend his time trying to save Dean.

"We never let it out of our possession." He paused. "I don't know, aside from all the information in it, it's the last piece of Dad we have. Except maybe for the Impala." He sighed heavily. He didn't get along with his father, but it didn't change the fact he missed him so badly it was a gaping hole in his heart. If he lost Dean too—no, that thought was too terrible. He cut off a chunk of pancake, his hearty appetite beginning to wane with the dark thoughts.

Sh tsked. "Sorry. I understand. She touched the celtic knot necklace with the red gem that hung around her throat. "My Devon gave me this. I never take it off."

He swallowed the bit of pancake hurriedly as he gave Tabitha a look of genuine surprise. "You were married?" He knew Ellen had been married to a hunter but that was the only marriage he'd ever heard of for a hunter. Then again, he didn't honestly know that many hunters.

"Twenty-one years, two months, and sixteen days. A mngwa nailed him," she said as she ate.

"Mngwa?" Sam asked with a shake of his head. He'd never heard of it.

"Rare type of supernatural feline about the size of a donkey. We were in Africa and stumbled across it. Wasn't even on a hunt. How's that for ironic?" Her laugh was soft and sad.

"He was a hunter, too?"

She brightened and her laugh was stronger and happier. "Oh, yes. We kept getting in each other's way, practically tripping over one another on hunts." She smiled, her eyes holding memories of the past. "We finally gave in to fate and started working together. Got married hardly a year later. Got one boy and one girl out of it." She gave an offhand wave to some picture frames sitting on a set of wooden shelves.

He couldn't make them out clearly from where he sat, but made a mental note to look at them after his conversation with Tabitha was over.

"Are they hunters?" he asked. Not only did hunters retire, but they had families—semi-normal families apparently. The concept bordered on strange for him, but comforted him that he might be able to find a similar type of life.

"Tricia does some occasional hunting and often works backup for anyone in North Dakota who needs it." She acknowledged then winked at him. "And she's a wicked shot with crossbows and rifles. She teaches at a college, English. She, of course, teaches a mythology class." Tabitha chuckled. "Greg, he hunted until he got married and decided to hang up his guns when his son was born. They give hunters refuge and a place to sleep, but that's as far as his involvement goes. Can't really blame him. He almost died on a hunt while his wife was eight months pregnant. He didn't want his son to grow up without a father. I have a feeling that boy of his is going to be one bad-ass hunter though."

Sam flipped his father's journal open to some pages he knew had some potions and poultices listed. "These yours?" he asked as he pushed the journal toward her.

She glanced them over as she turned a few worn pages. "Some of these are. The poultices and such, those are probably from Jeanie Sanders."

"I know that name," he said, frowning, trying to recall where he'd heard it. Usually he could recall any bit of information but this time his memory stubbornly refused to give him more than a sense of familiarity.

"She's from Nekkers. Where your brother was going. She died a few weeks ago." The sadness returned to her face.

"You knew her?" he asked gently. It was obvious she did.

She gave him a wan smile. "Yes. She was a friend. She taught me a lot through the years." Her sigh was barely audible. "She had some real power. Me, I just have your run of the mill stuff. A few little spells, a few little abilities. That girl, now she was something else. She had the second sight. She could do amazing things and pull spells out of her ass, let me tell you. It'd take me weeks to research a spell and she'd come up with a working one in a few hours. There were times I flat out hated her for it. In a friend sort of way, of course. I sure miss her."

Gutenburg the cat jumped up onto the table and mewed pitifully at his mistress.

"Get off the table, you beast," she scolded and pushed her toward the edge of the table. Mewling unhappily, the cat jumped down. "You know better than to do that when we're eating!" she told her as Gutenburg looked back up at her hopefully. She gave Sam a smirk. "She wants bacon." She tossed a large piece of bacon onto the wooden floor. "Now that's all you get. You'll get fat." She turned back to her breakfast and crunched on some bacon herself.

"You said you did some scrying?" Sam asked around a mouthful of pancake. "What did you find out?"

"First, tell me what options you're considering for getting your brother out of his little mess."

Her penetrating gaze seemed to cut right through him and he knew he couldn't lie to her. "I haven't found any yet," he admitted reluctantly.

"Bullshit, Boy. You're too bright for that," she snorted.

He glared at her. "All right. I've considered calling up the crossroads demon and working a deal of my own if I can't find any other alternatives. Dean saved one guy from his deal by trapping it. Maybe I can save Dean from his fate the same way."

"The crossroads demon will likely be the same one. You really think it'll fall for the same ploy twice?' She shook her head. "I doubt it. They've got more guile and brains than that."

"Yeah, I kinda figured the same thing. But…it might take me in trade," he said quietly.

She rolled her eyes, clearly exasperated. "You Winchesters. Always ready to throw yourselves into the pit of Hell with hardly a thought. You're loyal, but, Sammy Boy, that's just plain idiocy. And you know it."

"And I should let Dean burn for eternity in Hell for me?" he snapped. "In a handful of decades I'll be dead, maybe sooner, but Dean will still be there, tortured and tormented." He felt the tears well and fought them back. "How can I possibly live with that?"

"Depending on who the crossroads demon gives its alliance to, it might want you to take up command of the army of demons that Jake let loose. Yellow Eyes might not be around no more, but there are still those who'd like to see his protégé take his rightful place of command."

"I'm not his protégé!" Sam protested. "I won't do it!"

"Sure you would. If it meant saving your brother," she said bluntly.

"Are you saying that's the only way to save him? Take command of the demons?"

Tabitha gave him a small smile and sipped her coffee. She set the coffee mug back on the table. "I'm not saying anything, Sam. That's just one possibility of your future. Not a road you have to walk, but it is one road that may well be offered to you."

"I won't do that," Sam said with determination.

"You and I both know you'd do anything to save Dean. Just as he'd do anything to save you. He sold his soul to bring you back, in part because he was afraid of being alone. He'd lost so much, with you gone, he'd lost everything. And knowing that boy, he felt that he'd failed you, and failed John in not protecting you as he'd promised."

Sam scowled, frustration coloring his words. "And I can't stand the thought of losing him. He's all I've got left, too. But he doesn't seem to get that. My life for his soul. That's a rotten trade."

She shrugged. "Be that as it may, that's the way it went down. He was desperate. As desperate as your father was when he traded himself for Dean."

"But Dad got out," Sam whispered.

Tabitha grinned. "Yep. Helluva a way to get out, but opening the gates of Hell is one way to rescue your brother."

"Let out a few hundred more demons just so Dean can escape eternal torment? Let everything we've put back in Hell have a chance to get out again? I," Sam swallowed hard, "don't think I can do that. Dean wouldn't want me to do that."

"Yep, an ugly option," she agreed.

Sam shuddered. "I've seen what the demons have done just in the past six months. And it wouldn't bring Dean back. I'd still be…alone."

She watched him for a minute then asked, "What did Dean tell you the deal was?"

"My life for his soul. If he tries to get out of the deal, I die. Plain and simple." Sam pushed away the empty plate, remnants of maple syrup glimmering in smeared spots on the old blue plate. "Look, you said you scryed and had some ideas. I'm not hearing anything promising so far."

She settled back her chair, also pushing aside her plate. "The crossroads demon bargained for Dean's soul. Doesn't mean it will necessarily take his life." 

Sam snorted. "Of course it will. One year of life. Then Dean is sucked into Hell."

"Or he works in their name. Possessed. He wouldn't have a choice. His soul is theirs to do with as they please," She gave a grimace and shook her head, seeming to curse the boy again for his foolish deal. Her gaze returned to Sam. "What you need to find out is who gets his soul. Who wants his soul?" she asked. "Yellow Eyes wanted your father's soul because of all the damage your father had done through the years. Wanted to take out Dean because Dean had exorcised Meg and killed his son. Dean was leverage he knew he could use against John. And he wanted to weaken you. So long as Johnny was alive, you had a stronger support structure, even if you and Johnny didn't see eye-to-eye on most things. John would have done everything in his power to keep you from leading the demon army."

"Even killing me?" Sam asked. His father had told Dean that if Dean couldn't save him, Dean might have to kill him. If Dean had died and his father was still alive when Sam had been possessed by Meg, Meg was probably right. His father might not have had the same faith Dean did. Then again, his dad would have probably figured out Sam was possessed. He still wondered how it would have gone down.

"It would have been an option if Yellow Eyes hadn't been slain by Dean."

"So who ever wants Dean, wants Dean to use against me," he said.

She shrugged. "That's a good bet."

"And just how am I suppose to find out who wants Dean, who's pulling the strings?"

"You're at war." She glared and shook a finger at him. "Use that brain of yours, Boy. You're taking out demon after demon. Don't you think it might be time to start asking some questions? Worse comes to worst, we can keep Dean's body intact for a few days, maybe a week or so. You can always go in and get him." 

"And how would I do that?" he asked, annoyed by her accusations, knowing she was right. They hadn't tackled it from that angle. He'd been looking for ways to break a deal. It hadn't occurred to him to ask demons questions.

"Find some demons willing to trade. Not a pleasant option, I'll grant you, but the demons don't want to go back to Hell anymore than anyone else might. Some may well help in trade for being left alone, for asylum, as it were. And then there's always a little out of body traveling. It's dangerous, but it's possible."

"But once taken, can Dean really get back into his body if I were able to rescue him?"

"There are ways," she said darkly. "Strong magic, binding the soul back into the body, but it can be done. And once taken, the deal's done. They can't come back for him."

Sam chewed over her words. Most of the suggestions were not places he wanted to go. But if he could find out who really wanted Dean, who wanted to hold something over Sam, he might be able to defeat that demon and get Dean's soul back. Yellow Eyes had wanted his father. Who would want to control Sam or want Dean?

"So trying to find a way to break the deal isn't the way to go," he said, painfully acknowledging that possibility.

"I didn't say that," Tabitha said. "But breaking a deal is hard. Especially for an enemy of evil like Dean. You'd do better to leave the bulk of the research to people like Bobby and me and others. You work on catching demons and digging out every bit of information you can. Names are power, don't you know that?" she chastised. "With a name, conjuration is possible. It's hard and it's damned dangerous, but it is possible." She reached across and took his hand. "Sam, Dean needs you. He needs you at his side. He needs you helping him fight demons and evil. And you need to be there. To try to dig out information that you can feed to the rest of us. You're not alone in this, m'boy. Stop thinking you are. You may have lost a lot of your father's friends and comrades to Yellow Eye's daughter, but there are still a lot of us left. And we'll do everything we can, if you'll only let us."

"And this is what your scrying told you," Sam said, more bitterly than he'd meant.

"And it's a damned sight better than what you had two days ago. Now stop being an obsessed ass. Help your brother. Help him weather this. Find out the information we need that will help us do the sort of research that really needs to be done. Who's in charge. If we can find that out, Dean has a chance," Tabitha said, giving him a hard glare.

"I wont stop looking. I can't stop trying!"

"You can help your brother the most by being the backup he needs, the rock that he needs to face the decision he made. You need to focus on the job of taking out evil. Let us focus on saving him. Sure, you can keep looking, but Sam, you can't let it obsess you like it has. You're hurting Dean deeper than you realize. Find us names, Sam. That's what we need. And to do that, you need to be on top of your game. Demons are wily bastards, but without someone to lead them, they'll be jockeying for position and some are almost assuredly going to be willing to help."

"Bobby, it's Dean."

"How are things going for you?" Bobby's voice seemed warm and welcoming though Dean knew Bobby was still pretty pissed at him for making the deal with the demon.

Bobby continued, "Getting into as much trouble as you can manage?"

"Something like that," Dean hedged. He'd been working hard at the job, wanting to do in as many evil sons-of-bitches as he could before he ended up down there with them. Of course, a little extra enjoyment along the way wasn't a bad thing. "Bobby, you friends with a Jeanie Sanders? Nekkers, Indiana?"

There was a pause on the other end of the phone. "Yeah. Why?"

Dean hesitated. "She died almost three weeks ago, and I think she willed you her house."

"How'd she die?" Bobby asked brusquely, but Dean could hear the pain in his voice.

"Broken neck. I haven't figured out what killed her yet. You know how I hate research."

"What about Sam?" Bobby asked

Dean felt his throat close. "He-I —" he stumbled over his words. It had only been a few days, but he felt Sam's absence as keenly as he had when Sam went off to Stanford. But as he'd told Sam, Sam just wasn't really there anymore. Sam was going to get himself killed unless he pulled himself together. He hoped Tabitha could help him with that. The thought of spending the next six months alone on the road without his brother was almost beyond bearable.

Bobby's voice was filled with sudden concern. "You two have a fight? You want me to call him and try to smooth over some ruffled feathers?"

Dean took a long, deep breath. 'No, no. We've just been on the road too long together. We needed a break from each other is all. I dropped him off at Tabitha's for a few days. Thought she might be able to do him some good."

"Yeah?" Bobby's voice grew suddenly hard and biting. "I heard you dropped him on Tabitha's doorstep at three in the morning with no intentions of going back for him."

Dean ground his teeth. That bitch called Bobby? Crap. He finally gave a long sigh. "Shit, Bobby, he's obsessed with getting me out of my deal. He's not sleeping, all he does every waking moment is research except when we're hunting and then he's about gotten himself killed half a dozen times." Dean's bottled up frustration came out. "He's making stupid rookie mistakes, or his reaction time is just flat out slow," he growled. "I can barely get him to do any research on any job. It's pretty much up to me to find the horde of demons we let loose that night."

"Wouldn't you have done the exact same thing for your Dad if you'd had the chance?" Bobby accused.

"This is different!" Dean protested.

"Bullshit. You'd have spent every waking moment trying to save him and you know it," he snapped.

"Sam's mind isn't on the job anymore!" Dean felt his fury blossom. He wanted his damned brother back. He wanted the two of them side-by-side, hunting and being what they'd been. Best friends. He'd only six months left. Was that too much to ask?

"Huh. Imagine that," Bobby said sarcastically. "His mind _is_ on the job, Dean, just not the same job yours is on. You're the fool self who put yourself and him into that position. You can't blame Sam for trying to save you. You wouldn't give up on him. Why do you think he can give up on you?" Bobby's sigh was audible. "So you're in Nekkers, Indiana? Working a job without backup? Dammit, Dean. You Winchesters are all alike."

Dean bristled. "Hey, Sam and I didn't even know there were more than a handful of hunters until after Dad died. We never knew Dad ever called in backup."

Bobby snorted. "That's because the idiot didn't half the time. Stubborn as hell—"

Dean could almost hear Bobby wince at his choice of words. "Your old man was stubborn," Bobby finished.

"Really? I'd never noticed," Dean said sarcastically. "So you got any idea what I'm up against here in Nekkers?"

"'Fraid not. Go on by Jeanie's place. She keeps a key under the geranium pot on the back porch. You might find something there."

"The town is looking for you," Dean said.

"I'll contact them tomorrow and let them know I heard about Jeanie's death and will. What name you going under?" Bobby's voice had finally softened.

"Eric Bloom, Indianapolis Star."

"All right. You be careful, you hear me? If you want backup…" Bobby was tempted to tell him to go get Sam, "…you call me."

"Thanks, Bobby."

After Dean ended the call he turned back to his research. He'd head out to Jeanie's a little later in the day, after the sun was a little closer to setting. He studied the records he'd collected over the past two days. He'd reviewed all the accidental deaths that had occurred in the little slice of heaven called Nekkers and no one had died of broken necks until the recent three. There were no killers that he could find that had that M.O., at least not anywhere in the Midwest. In fact, the only death from a broken neck he could find had happened almost a hundred years previously when a little girl fell from her horse. There were no recent major structures being remodeled in town, no disturbed cemeteries, no missing persons, nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch.

He sighed, and wished he had his father's journal with him. Or Sam's skill on the computer at dredging up useful tidbits of information. He had snaked Daniel Elkin's journal from Sam's pack, but it was mostly filled with vampiric lore and vampiric clan movement with a smattering here and there of other supernatural critters. It hadn't been as much use as he'd hoped. He'd been reluctant to take Dad's journal from Sam. His brother still frequently referenced it in his search for a solution to Dean's pact. It was too important and Sam couldn't lose access to it, at least as far as Sam would be concerned, anyhow. He didn't want to admit to himself he secretly harbored the hope that Sam could save him. But hope like that was dangerous.

He reviewed the photos he'd taken when he'd slipped in to the theater earlier in the day after talking with Coop. The EMF hadn't dropped out of the red the whole time he was in there. Ghostly mojo filled the place and it practically oozed ectoplasm.

"So why now, Mrs. O? What changed you from being a ghost drifting serenely by, honeysuckle perfume permeating the air, to a murderous spirit? Or did one of the ghosts from someone who died in the fire at the hospital suddenly go crazy? I wonder if a ghost can go nuts?" Dean shook his head. A relatively serene haunting stayed a serene haunting unless somebody messed with something. And there was nothing that he could find that could have triggered it.

"Dammit, Sam, I wish you were here. I don't have any leads why this all went south."

Stubbornly, Dean began to slowly, meticulously, go through the records again. The theater was, technically owned by the city. Nothing unusual was going on, so far as Dean could tell. Coop didn't seem to be up to no-good. The money he had the firm in Indianapolis working was giving good returns for the most part and the city seemed reasonably happy with the situation. Nothing underhanded was going on in this apple pie town from what he could tell.

Based upon his research Coop was right, there were no overt connections between the three that had died.

He turned to various pictures of the theater through the years and compared them to photos he'd taken today. There had been changes, but nothing recent.

Dean leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head as he kicked his feet up onto the table. There were no major pagan holidays near when this had started or any significant signs…signs, signs. About three months ago, there was something in the news about the theater. Dean dug through the copies of the newspaper articles. Yes, the theater had been broken into. Nothing was taken, nothing inside really disturbed, just some minor broken glass here and there and papers tossed about. A small second story window had been broken, probably by a thrown rock, the news said. Dean looked at old pictures and finally found one of the window. It was a small five-sided stained glass window but he couldn't make out much beyond that. Checking the photos he'd taken, he saw that it was still boarded up. Could Mrs. O have gone postal because of the window? Maybe it had some special meaning to her. Maybe it had some special design. Maybe he could somehow use it to take care of her, since she had no bones to burn. She'd been cremated and her ashes sprinkled around the theater. That window—well, it wasn't much, but it was the only lead he had so far.

"Crap. I better get to Jeanie's place. I can find a better picture of the window tomorrow."

Dean went out to the Impala and climbed in. He glanced over at the passenger's seat, half expecting to see his brother there, smiling at him, or huffing with annoyance, or even, working on that damned computer. But the seat was painfully empty. Dean swallowed back the pain. Leaving Sam at Tabitha's was the best thing he could do for his brother. At least, that's what he told himself.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: Nope. Don't own the copyrights to the Boys. But thank you Kripke for such fab characters and letting us play in your universe!!

Rating is for some bad-boy language.

No longer my first submitted as "Blood Debt" hijacked my computer. This story takes place 6 months after "All Hell Breaks Loose". Since I started it before 3rd season started, I'll leave it as it is and not try to adjust for anything in 3rd Season. Sorry it took so long to get back to it. Life got in the way and another Supernatural story (Dragonfly) successfully hijacked my computer as well. Thanks for your patience!

I know the chapter is a bit slow, but it's the final set up before everything really starts to happen. I really want to finish the story before season three ends, but I don't think I'll make it. I'm not sure yet if there are one or two chapters to follow this. Generally I can't pound out quality writing in three days anyhow. But the end is in sight. I promise.

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**Six Months**

_Chapter 5_

Dean found her house without any trouble. It was a quaint two-story yellow farmhouse as might be seen along any country road in Midwest America. Roses gave small splashes of color against that white banister that wrapped around the porch and creeping up one pillar, pink and purple clematis claimed their territory. A bird feeder out front still had hopeful birds flitting to it, hunting for any remaining tidbits in its empty innards. A dirt driveway led from the road to the white barn behind the house. Dean pulled the black Impala to the rear of the house and parked near the back door.

To his left were ground-level slanted white wooden doors that led into the cellar. To the right was a garden of flowers and herbs. The stone steps leading up to the porch and back door seemed out of place for the wooden two story. After shouldering his duffel of evil fighting goodies, Dean walked up the five stairs and surveyed the fifteen pots of thriving geraniums.

"How many freaking geraniums did the woman own?" Dean looked under four pots before he found the promised brass key which was covered in a thin coat of dirt and lime. He wiped the key on his pants until the key was clean enough for use then opened the screen door and slid the key in the doorknob. How long had it been since he hadn't seen a dead bolt on a door? He pushed open the door, expecting to be heralded by an ear-rending creak but the well-oiled door opened silently.

Dean found himself in a small sitting room, an oak hardwood floor covered in the center with a round pale carpet, colorful flowers following close to its brown border. The walls were papered with vertical stripes of tiny flowers separated by light tan bars. The wallpaper had yellowed a little with age. An old green recliner sat next to the back door facing a small TV with a VCR sitting beside it. A wooden table, antique by the looks of it, and an old porcelain lamp sat beside the chair. The smell of stale cigarettes tickled Dean's nose as he looked around the old homestead. He'd walked into so many old houses, feeling the hair on the back of his neck lift and his hand tighten on the salt-loaded shotgun. But not here. Here he felt oddly welcomed, almost…expected. The feeling begged him to stay and sit a spell, a promise of fresh lemonade and apple-pie as his bribe. It was nice to walk into a house and not feel the taint of an evil spirit, or meet a family stricken by the loss of a loved one. This felt like…home. Or the way Dean thought home ought to feel like. He smiled a little and took a deep breath, the smells of roses, patchouli, cinnamon, and cedar intermingled with one another, the stale cigarette smell almost lost in their essences. He paused, basking in the warm, welcome feelings. This was a small gift of comfort that he could nestle among his treasured memories and hold close to him as the demons ripped his flesh from his bones.

"That's the way to ruin pleasant mojo feelings, Dean. Good job," he muttered to himself, trying to push the demon-torturing from his mind and once again embrace the warm fuzzies he got from the house. He forced himself to focus on the job at hand in an effort to keep the dark thoughts at bay. After all, the present was all he had. His future had been sacrificed.

There were two doorways leading out of the room, one to the right and one to the left. He could see the hint of linoleum to the left—kitchen he figured—and a continuation of the hardwood floors to the right.

"Guess right is as good a way as any." Dean paused, wondering if he did go into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator if he'd find apple pie and lemonade. He winced. Two and a half week old lemonade and pie? No, don't think so.

As he started toward the doorway to his right, his eyes raked over the VCR and the tape sitting on top of it. He froze when he saw its neatly written label.

_Dean Winchester_

Dean slowly reached for the tape. She'd known he was coming. Well, Coop had said she had the second sight. He slid the tape into the VCR and heard the machine hum to life. He turned on the old TV and the tape started to play.

An older woman, hair long gone silver but not yet white, was dressed in a pink short-sleeved sweater and blue jeans. Her smile was bright and her eyes sparkled, hell, practically shone. She sat in the green recliner and stared right at Dean.

"Hello, Dean. Don't just stand there gawking. Take a seat. This recliner," she patted the chair's arm, "might be a bit threadbare, but you won't find a more comfortable chair." She paused to light a cigarette then looked back at him. "Well? Sit yourself down."

Dean kept his eyes locked on the old woman and backed his way to the recliner. He sank into it, all but flabbergasted. Vaguely he noted that she had been right. The chair was damned comfortable.

She laughed at him. "I do wish I could see that startled, handsome face of yours in real life. I'd probably tell you to shut your mouth."

Dean realized his mouth was open just a little, in sheer surprise, and did just as she said he should. His gaze swept the room almost nervously. She was as amazing as Missouri was. Maybe more so.

"By now, you've talked with old Coop, probably been in the theater, and probably called Bobby. Course you have or you wouldn't have known about the key," she said with an offhand wave. "I know you've figured out the window of the theater might be a good clue to follow up. It is. And you need a good picture of it. There should be a photo album on the bottom shelf of the table beside you. You'll find the picture in there, near the back. Go on and pull it out. I'll wait."

Dean felt a chill go through his body. This was just a little beyond creepy. Even with the warm, welcome feeling the house seemed to put out, it was still creepy.

He looked down and saw the photo album. Snagging it, he pulled it into his lap. He flipped toward the back, pausing now and again when a picture caught his eye. She was a pretty thing in her youth. Oh, not a beauty contest winner by any means, but just nice looking in the-girl-next-door sort of way. When he found a picture of her and Bobby, he stopped, studying it. He chuckled softly to himself. He remembered that particular incarnation of Bobby who sported a light brown mustache. Dean had probably been five when he first met the junkyard man, but this Bobby in the picture he remembered from when he was close to nine or ten. Bobby was still on the trimmer side back then and in the picture he still had that same goofy shit-eating grin that Dean hadn't seen—well, not since before his father had died. Bobby had his arm wrapped around Jeanie's waist in a way that made Dean suspect the two had been more than just friends.

"Now never you mind those other pictures, Dean. Get to the back of the album," she chided him.

Dean looked up guiltily at her and flipped to the rear of the album. The third page from the back he found a good close up of the window. He pulled it free of its sleeve and turned on the lamp beside the chair, noticing there was a magnifying glass sitting out and waiting.

The little stained glass window was just a collection of colors and shapes. There were no animals, plants, or people in its design. Just some random geometric shapes and symbols. Dean picked up the magnifying glass and took a harder look.

"Sonofabitch," Dean muttered. "A devil's trap. Mrs. O, you didn't go nutso. Something got in. Something you'd been protecting the theater against. Something mean and nasty and something that you'd kept out for years."

Crap. He'd been prepared to go up against an angry spirit. A demon of some type? That might not be a one man job. Still, if he could trap it, he could exorcise it. He wished he had more info on what might possibly be interested in the theater and what it was that Mrs. O wanted to keep out.

"That's right, Dean," Jeanie said. "A devil's trap, one meant to keep evil spirits from entering the old theater."

"So what's she trying to keep out?" Dean asked, more to himself than to Jeanie.

"Wish I had an answer to your question. I asked her dozens of times through the years and she never would tell me. She just told me she had to protect the children and that two of the men who'd died in the fire had shown her the design."

Dean looked up at Jeanie's image. "What?"

Jeanie grinned back at him. "I never met them, though I know they're there. My best guess is that they were hunters in their day. She told me where to find King Solomon's book, the one you've seen at Bobby's place. It was buried in a box in the basement. It had taken some fire damage, but I managed to restore it and gifted it to Bobby. I knew he'd put it to better use than I would."

Dean pulled out an old picture of Mrs. O'Sullivan Jeanie had tucked next to the church window. "You don't know what it is, but obviously she did," Dean murmured. "Seems like it might be time for a little séance."

He'd need something of hers. Normally, he wouldn't, but that place was jumping with ectoplasmic goodness and a séance would catch all their attentions. He needed it focused and the best way would be to have something of hers to focus on. Surely there was something in the theater that belonged to her. He sighed and thought back to the stacks of research in his hotel room. If Sam were here, he'd probably remember all the crap Dean had been sifting through. Sam soaked up information like a sponge soaked up water. Dean, on the other-hand, tended to stay focused on the topic at hand, and he hadn't been bothering to pay attention to unrelated details.

"Sam, dammit," Dean moaned, "I sure could use my little brother to save me from this research crap. You should be here. I should be out at the bar, soaking up some hedonistic joys. Six months left and you're condemning me to doing research. I ought to haunt your ass for this."

Jeanie's voice interrupted his minor rant. "I know you're thinking a séance might give you what you need. She was always closed lipped to me, but with that evil spirit in the theater now, I'm thinking she'll be a bit more cooperative. You'll need something of hers to help in the séance. Although Maureen wasn't an actor, she did the occasional bit parts in the plays and often was the announcer for the shows and hosted the post-show parties. Some of the more elaborate dresses she wore are housed on display at the theater."

"Yahtzee," Dean murmured and pulled out his black journal book to check what supplies he'd need.

"You're going to need some items you don't have in your trunk. In the basement you'll find a bag with a tag reading DW on it and all the extra things you'll need, each also labeled. You'll need to set up a circle of protection that you can complete after Maureen appears. Calling her to manifest might well piss off whatever's gotten in. Since," she sighed, "I don't know what it is, I can't help you defeat it, but I threw in a variety extra stuff in that bag and some spells that might be useful." She paused and took a long drag on her cigarette. She chuckled. "After all the grief I've gotten about dying from cancer and some supernatural bogeyman is going to kill me tomorrow." She gave Dean a soft smile. "I know. Why don't I just not go to the theater? I'm on the reaper's list. It's my time. If I don't die there, you won't connect my death to the theater and you wouldn't have any reason to come here. It's a bitch, huh?

"At least I've had time to make my peace and tend to my will. I know you understand about the pisser it is to know when you're going to die. Bobby'll take care of my things and the town will take care of my pets." She knocked ashes into an ashtray and took another drag from her cigarette. Blowing the smoke out, her smile broadened. "That's it Dean. That's as much as I know. Wish I could tell you more or help you more. Be careful and good luck. Oh, and there's some lemonade and apple pie in the fridge. I put a preservation spell on them, so they'll still be fresh for you. Now you leave a piece for Bobby, you hear? Tell him there's a tape in the cabinet beneath the TV for him, too. He'll know which one is his. And don't even think about taking a peek at it. It's private."

Static suddenly filled the TV screen. Dean pushed himself out of the chair and turned off the TV, only briefly toying with looking through the tapes in the cabinet. No, wasn't his business. After rewinding the tape, he ejected it and slid it into his duffel.

Off to his left was the kitchen, just as he'd suspected. The linoleum was old and worn, but he could still tell it had once been blue with black flecks. Basement doors were often off kitchens and it would in the right direction for where he'd seen the outside cellar doors. He glanced over at the fridge and, setting duffel on the table, gave a shrug. What the hell.

Opening the fridge he found, just as she promised, lemonade and apple pie. He poured himself a glass and sliced himself a piece of pie. Settling at the table with his food, he cut off a forkful of the streusel-topped pie. He grinned as he savored it. Now this was pie. Pie like he'd told Sam to bring him when he went in to that diner. The last time he'd seen Sam alive before seeing his brother stabbed and having him die in Dean's arms. He finished the pie quickly and downed the lemonade. Dammit. Ever since he'd left Sammy at Tabitha's the deal for his soul kept rearing its head. Everything seemed to remind him of it. And he still had six months left. He'd be a freaking basket case by the time the day came. He stared at the empty plate and ran his finger over the remnants of the pie and stuck his finger in his mouth to suck off the last of the pie. There was plenty of pie in there, enough for a second piece, he mused. Instead, he stared at the white plate with its embossed border and drew his finger across it once more to collect the last of the streusel topping and filling. Six more months and it'd be over. Over. No more hunting. No more anything but agony and pain.

_Hell is, well, Hell._

Meg had said that to him as she dug her thumb in the gunshot wound she'd given him. Even demons wanted out, shed said. He felt his stomach heave. He was terrified. He kept on his game face for Sam of course. He'd already resigned himself to his re-written destiny. The first time his destiny had been re-written was when his electrocuted bad heart was healed and the athlete Marshall Grant died in his place. Marshall had two brothers—he struggled to remember their names—Mike and Morgan, that was it, who he'd met by Marshall's graveside at a rainy one A.M. in the morning. The second time his fate had been changed was when he was dying from his near evisceration by the demon and car accident that followed. His father had traded himself and the Colt so Dean might live.

Cheating Death twice was more than any man had a right to and that at the cost of a stranger's life and his father's soul. Guilt haunted him. Why should he live and they die? What made him more valuable than either of them? The scales demanded rebalanced and Death was apparently more than a little pissed that Dean Winchester had managed to have his name removed from the list not once, but twice. Technically, he supposed, three times if you counted him facing the reaper outside Roy's tent. He'd been ready to die the noble death for Layla, ready to let the reaper take him so she might live, so the pain of his guilt might be put to rest. Was it noble when it was done out of guilt? He wondered. When Sam died too, no, he just couldn't stand that final guilt that he'd failed his brother. Let the reaper take him. The crossroad's demon had been right. He was supposed to have died. He wasn't supposed to be alive. He'd kinda hoped for that bullshit bright light, his mom and dad waiting for him at the end of the long tunnel. He could lay his mortal worries and guilt to rest. As Sam had pointed out, the light at the end of his tunnel wasn't the golden light of Heaven but rather, Hellfire. He hadn't really counted on that, but maybe it was justice. Maybe it was deserved.

He climbed to his feet and, carrying the plate, fork and glass over to the white enameled double sink, washed off his dishes and set them in the strainer to dry. He shouldered his duffel and returned to his search for the basement door. He glanced at the pantry and then turned toward the stove and the hall way to its right. A door. He opened it, and this door did creak. Flicking the light switch on, he slowly descended the stairs.

The basement ran the length and width of the house. Line after line of grow light and shelves with herbs and plants filled one quarter of the basement. Another quarter was taken up with a washer, dryer, ironing board, sink and cleaning stuff like brooms and mops. He almost laughed when he saw the old wash bin with the crank and rollers to run the clothes through to squeeze the water from them. The rest of the basement had some furniture and a bookshelf and some boxes with labels like 'Beltane' and 'Halloween' written neatly on their sides along with a catalog of what each box contained. On a table near the plants he saw a black duffel. Sure enough, the tag read "DW."

Opening the duffel he saw it was filled with a variety of herbs and odds and ends, along with a thin book. When he opened the book, there were about fourteen spells in there. He zipped the duffel back up and shouldered it with his other one. He climbed the stairs and turned off the lights as he passed through the rooms and left the house. After returning the key to beneath the geranium pot, he drove back to the hotel and began going through everything she'd left for him.

Before he knew it, it was two A.M. and he decided he'd set up everything during daylight hours, and then when the sun set, make his supernatural call to Mrs. O.

He brushed his teeth then he slid under the covers of the bed. He lay awake, staring at the dark shadows on the ceiling. He missed hearing the slow and constant breathing of his sleeping brother. He missed the smell of Sam's soap, hell even that fancy aftershave. He hadn't planned on being away from Sam during his last six months. How could he protect his brother if they weren't together? Why did he leave Sam with Tabitha? He could have stayed there, too. Let Sam and Tabitha talk and maybe Sam would have gotten some focus back. Dean had 180 days left before _she_ came for him. Before she and her hellhounds ripped his flesh to shreds and carried his soul into eternal torment.

He swallowed back the lump in his throat. He'd made a crappy deal. But one year or ten, the outcome would have been the same. His father had climbed out of Hell. Maybe he just needed to be patient and wait and watch. A door to hell was bound to be opened sometime. The war was in full swing, after all. The brothers had faced demons and creatures they couldn't even find listed in mythology. Every week it seemed there was something new and dangerous.

He gave it a handful of decades before he'd forget who he was, why he was there, and he'd be insane. He was surprised at the laugh that erupted from him. Insane folk made deals with demons. He'd been insane with grief over the loss of Sam. Sam was back. Sam was alive. Sam had a chance to go onto live a more normal life than Dean could ever hope to know.

Dean smiled to himself. He'd do it again, without a doubt. He felt the lump in his throat melt and nestled those thoughts of his brother a little deeper, turned over, and quickly fell asleep.

Dean took his time in the morning and, after a two-mile run, a multitude of sit-ups and push-ups, he took a nice long hot shower. Breakfasting at the diner had garnered him a smile from a cutesy brunette as well as her phone number. Getting some coffee to go, he returned to his room to survey the supplies he'd laid out the night prior. After some deliberation, he pulled out some empty duffels. In the first duffel he carefully tucked all the things he'd need for the séance sans Mrs. O's dress or whatever he ended up grabbing for a focal point. In a smaller bag he placed everything he'd need for the circle of protection and really hoped Mrs. O didn't take her good sweet time manifesting. He nestled that bag into the duffel beside the séance supplies. He opened the second duffle and reviewed what Jeanie had given him and what tools of the trade he might need. Silver and cold iron were always a good bet, and rock salt loaded shells for the shot gun, holy water, plus a decent sized bag of rock salt and some goofur dust were the obvious needs. That duffel packed, he sat down on the edge of the bed and thumbed through Jeanie's spells. Jeanie had made up a spell component packet for each spell.

"Man, I don't even know if I can do a spell." Dean sighed and flipped back to the beginning of the book. He'd need to know what she'd put together for him so he'd need to read each one carefully. He began laughing when he read the name for the first spell. "'Spell for a novice Winchester', huh? No wonder Bobby liked you. Sounds like you and he had the same twisted sense of humor, Jeanie."

Dean opened up the packet of components and read over the spell. It was a simple spell that would spin a pencil on the desk. Dean set up everything, following her directions as if he were preparing to perform an exorcism. He went through the motions a few times until he felt he had it down. Nervously, he gave it a try.

"Holy fucking shit," Dean murmured as the pencil began slowly spinning on the table. His gaze swept over the salt and water, the dust and the crystals. "Helluva lot of work just to spin a little piece of wood, Jeanie."

He returned to the bedside and carefully read through each of the remaining spells. She had spells for goblins, hobgoblins, wights, and a handful of other supernatural creatures, including minor demons. He tore the pages from the book and put each spell with its respective spell components and organized them alphabetically. He may not have time to search for the right spell if he had to resort to it. He read over the spells again and made sure he had some level of familiarity with what each spell component looked like so he wasn't fumbling like an idiot through the packets. "Let it be easy," he begged. "Let it be rock salt or a silver knife or something like that. Not freaking chanting and throwing fairy dust."

He ordered in a pizza for lunch and reviewed his research, hoping against hope of finding some clue as to what he was going up against. He flipped through his journal to make certain he knew the tools necessary to fight things he'd only read about and hadn't actually faced. If it was something he'd faced, hell, he was probably golden. If it was something new? He just hoped it was easy to kill.

After he felt he was ready, he took a little time to chill, flicking on the TV. He glanced over at the empty bed where Sam ought to be. He'd gotten two beds instead of one out of sheer habit. He clenched his jaw and turned back to the TV, hoping it might distract him from the empty spot in the bed next to his own.

Dean jerked awake, the laughter of the demon who'd been torturing him still ringing in his ears. He was soaked with sweat. The clock showed it was going on six. He really needed to get going, but he had to shower. He ignored the tail end of "Charmed", not missing the irony, and quickly got into the shower, making it as cold as he could stand it. He'd only slept for about forty-five minutes and was surprised by the dream. He hadn't had hellfire and brimstone dreams before. He lathered himself over twice, as if the soap could wash away the memories of the dream. It was because Sam was gone and he knew it.

Nodding to himself, he came to a decision. He couldn't just leave Sam at Tabitha's. Even if his brother chose to spend the rest of the six months glued to the computer, Dean needed his brother beside him. He could work the jobs alone just so long as when he got back from kicking evil's ass, he would find his little brother beside him on the next trip to the next evil. After this job was over, he'd go get Sam.

He finally stepped out of the shower and quickly dressed. The sun would be setting soon and he needed to have everything set up. He picked up his duffels and headed out to the car. He set his bags beside him and started the car, letting it idle in the chill day. He pulled out his phone and called up Sam's number. He stared at it a minute, then put the phone back in his pocket. He'd call Sam in the morning, he reassured himself. He'd call Sam and tell him he was coming to pick him up. Hopefully Sammy would forgive him for abandoning him. Dean didn't want to contemplate what he'd do if Sam snubbed him.

--

The reference to Marshall Grant's brothers and the 1 am meeting in the graveyard comes from sodakey's story "Rainwalk".


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: Nope. Don't own the copyrights to the Boys. But thank you Kripke for such fab characters and letting us play in your universe!!

Rating is for some bad-boy language.

No longer my first submitted as "Blood Debt" hijacked my computer. This story takes place 6 months after "All Hell Breaks Loose". Since I started it before 3rd season started, I'll leave it as it is and not try to adjust for anything in 3rd Season. Sorry it took so long to get back to it. Life got in the way and another Supernatural story (Dragonfly) successfully hijacked my computer as well. Thanks for your patience!

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**Six Months**

_Chapter 6_

The sun was still up when Dean once again picked the lock to the back door of the theater. Nothing had changed from the few days prior when he'd checked out the place. It was all familiar: the concrete hallway that sloped up and led backstage, the old flyers tacked up on the walls, the echo of his footsteps in the all but silent theater. He paused at the top of the hall. Forty feet away stood the wall separating the stage proper from the backstage. Bolts with wing nuts connected various crossbeams to one another, allowing sections of the wall to be shifted to accommodate a play's needs. He knew in front of that wall was the wooden stage that looked out onto the burgundy seats of the theater. To his right was a large open area with various props and beyond that, dressing rooms for the actors. To his left was much the same. The larger dressing rooms on that side were for likely for the stars of the show.

"So where do I make the phone call?" Dean mused.

He'd been down in the basement and there were a multitude of loose items, potential missiles that could be launched against a lone hunter like himself. The balcony was a poor choice since one guy had already taken a swan dive from there. The stage itself seemed the wisest place to set up even though it was a bit more exposed than Dean really preferred. It was unlikely anyone would be coming into the theater, so aside from needing to avoid getting tossed into the orchestra pit or the wall fall on top of him...he scratched his chin.

"Flattened Winchester. No, don't think I want that on the menu tonight. Guess that means the largest dressing room is probably the next best call. So time to go find something of Mrs. O's that'll sort her out from the rest of the spirits here."

He headed for the lobby where some of her things were on display. Last time he'd been in the theater his EMF had been a constant non-stop screech, but this time it only whined softly at him. Odd that a place jumping with ectoplasmic activity previously seemed so ominously quiet now. He found it ironic that the _lack_ of signs of ghosts gave him the heebie-jeebies.

_Don't be stupid, Dean. Just get on with it,_ he told himself. _Maybe it's because the sun hasn't quite set yet. Yeah, sure. Just because it was mid-afternoon last time and every ghost and their brothers were partying._

He perused the items on display. Three dresses were behind glass, two pinned to the wall and one on a mannequin. All were bulkier than he'd prefer to haul around. They had long flowing skirts, lace and beaded sleeves and collars, and he figured he'd end up tripping on whichever one of the damned things he chose. "Last thing I want is to piss her off by ruining one of her dresses."

He walked over to another case and found black gloves and a hat.

"Yahtzee," he declared with a grin.

He'd seen her wear this particular hat in a handful of pictures so he knew it was something she wore often and was quite probably fond of. After double checking to make certain the case wasn't alarmed, he picked the lock to the case, opened it, and extracted the fancy black-netted hat decorated with netting and beads. He carefully closed the case, wiped down his fingerprints, and headed to the star's dressing room.

Stopping in the doorway of the chosen room, he eyed the spacious quarters for obvious weapons. There were the standard items like the chair, mirror, and odds and ends on the vanity, but he was more concerned with sharper, deadlier objects. He rifled through the closet and found a few props that fit said description and set them in the next room. Satisfied he'd eliminated the most hazardous of items, he cleared as large a space on the floor as he could and began to lay out the circle of protection.

His EMF gave a sudden squawk of alarm, the needle fully pegged. Dean looked up, bag of salt still in his hand. A handsome young man with pale skin, blond hair, and soulful blue eyes stood in the doorway. He was dressed in subtle finery, a silken white shirt with flared sleeves and cuffs, comfortable loose slacks and black boots. A gold chain with a coat of arms adorned his neck and he wore a ring with a large diamond set in its gold band. He gave Dean a kind smile. Dean set the salt aside and grabbed his shotgun, raising its muzzle to point at the man.

"Why would you want to do that?" the young man crooned. "I can offer you pleasures of young women, feasts of venison and fruit, mead and wine. I sense your deep pain, your feelings of loss. I can take that away and give you nothing but joy for the rest of your days. Set down your gun."

Dean felt his grip loosen on the gun as his will weakened. He could almost feel the pleasure and happiness the young man offered. The essence of fine red wine filled his mouth and he was sure he heard the murmurs of women in the hallway begging him to join them. He knew he'd be forever safe under the care of this man. And what was that annoying squawking sound?

The young man stepped closer. "Set that gun aside and join me." He held his hand out to Dean.

Dean started to do as the man said when something hit the back of his head, the sort of swat one brother might give to another. His mind snapped clear and his grip tightened on his gun, the muzzle aimed again at the young man. He pulled the trigger and the shotgun went off, unloading both barrels into the young man. The apparition dissolved in front of him, an ugly sneer and sinister glare replacing it gentle visage.

Dean spun around to see what had hit him but nothing was there. On the vanity's mirror written in red lipstick was the word "cellar." The squawking EMF had quieted to a soft hum. Dean stared at the word on the mirror a moment longer. He reloaded his shotgun, picked up the bag of salt, and shouldered his duffels. "All right, basement it is."

As Dean stepped into the hallway, he heard the clatter of hooves and his EMF again screamed a warning. A large black horse with red eyes charged him. Dean practically fell back into the dressing room. The horse stopped at the door, snorting, and stalked slowly forward. Dean unloaded the shotgun into but the salt did nothing to the horse.

"Dammit." Dean cursed, dropped the shotgun and grabbed the flask from his inside coat pocket. He unscrewed the lid as the horse drew nearer. "Try this, you bastard," Dean said and splashed the holy water in the horse's face. The horse screamed and reared, one hoof catching Dean under the chin and knocking him back into the wall. The horse spun and left the dressing room.

Putting his hand to his chin, Dean's hand came away bloody. "Son of a bitch," he muttered as he pushed himself unsteadily to his feet. He picked up the dropped shotgun, reloaded it again, and kept his flask at hand as he re-shouldered his duffels. Staggering to the hallway, he looked for the black horse or handsome young man but the hallway was empty. The EMF detector hummed softly now.

"Are we having fun yet?" Dean growled. He felt the blood run from his chin, down his neck, and begin to soak into his t-shirt.

The door to the basement was seventy paces away. He skulked into the hallway, his gun held at ready. As he crept up the hall he listened for the clippity-clop of the horse, the man's hypnotizing voice, or the screech of his EMF. Reaching the red door of the basement, he twisted the knob and pushed the door open. He flicked the light on and surveyed the stairs to the room below, listening for noises. He wondered briefly if it were friend or foe he was going to face. Something had smacked him out of the young man's entrancement, so ghost or not, he considered it a potential ally.

Pulling the door closed behind him, he hurried down the stairs, not wanting caught on them if either the horse or ghostly man returned.

His EMF whined loudly and the smell of honeysuckle became almost overwhelming. He saw the apparition of Mrs. O'Sullivan wave him forward frantically. "Here. Over here," she called to him.

Hearing the rattle of the doorknob at the top of the stairs and the snorting of the horse wiped any hesitation from his mind. The EMF was pegged and screeching as he hurried to the ghostly woman's side. Dean reached into his pocket and shut it off. Wasn't like there was any question he was in the presence of a spirit.

Dean studied the woman. She wore a long dress similar to the ones on display out in the lobby. This dress was blue and had peacock feathers for accents among the elaborate beadwork. She had a black lacy stole around her shoulders, black gloves, and a wedding ring was on her hand. Her hair was down on her shoulders and even though she looked in her sixties, her hair was raven black. She was certainly a nice looking woman for her age and Dean decided the pictures of her he'd seen didn't do her justice.

"So you're Mrs. O'Sullivan?" Dean asked as he faced the stairs, his gun aimed toward the door at the top.

"Maureen will do, young man," the woman said. "You don't need that gun or your holy water. Look down." She flipped back the corner of a carpet.

A wide line of salt and silver dust was beneath the carpet with some symbols scratched into the concrete.

"A circle of protection," Dean said and lowered his gun. He noticed she watched the muzzle carefully.

She gave him a slight smile. "You're safe in here, but stay away from the borders," she said.

"And the borders are where?" he asked.

"Beneath these rugs. Jesse, would you be kind enough to illuminate it for him?"

Dean could see the glowing outline of the circle—well, it wasn't really a circle, it was more like a square with bowed out lines—covered a good portion of the section of the basement he stood in. The entire circle was covered by rugs so no casual passersby would notice them. Undoubtedly Jeanie had been aware of it and made sure the rugs stayed in place. Then again, the activity hadn't been going on all that long. The circle might be a new addition to the theater.

The door to the basement crashed open and horse and rider clattered down the stairs. They circled the protective lines, the blond man glaring at Maureen.

"He can't help you," he snarled at her. "I'll have him, I'll have the children, the hunters, and you." His attention turned to Dean though he still spoke to her. A menacing smile curled his lips. "He doesn't know how to defeat me any more than those other pathetic do-gooders do." He laughed. "Unlike you, he can't stay in your precious little circle forever. And I'll be waiting. I imagine he has a tasty soul. Most hunters do. I look forward to tasting it after I snap his neck."

"Taste this, you son-of-a-bitch," Dean said and fired the shotgun into him. The man disappeared in a blossom of smoke as the horse screamed its fury. It trotted toward Dean, wrath in its eyes.

"Can't touch me in here you big bastard," Dean said.

The horse reached across the circle and snapped at Dean's shotgun, its teeth chinking against the metal but failing to get a hold of it. Dean stumbled back, shocked.

"What the hell?" His gaze snapped to Maureen. "How can it cross the circle?" he demanded. When he glanced back to the horse, it was gone.

A man dressed in buckskin with a leather bag hanging from a thong around his neck appeared beside the woman. He had on a gun belt and a sheath that held a large hunting knife. His hair was dark and his ocean blue eyes, cool. "That's a mighty fine question, Hunter. One we still ain't figured out. Something to do with it being demonic we're guessing, but much beyond that?" the man shrugged, "we ain't never seen its like neither. Cost us six souls 'fore we figured out that nasty little talent. Mind you, it can't actually cross the circle, but it can reach into it."

"Where'd it go?" Dean asked. "How'd it disappear."

The man gave a shrug. "It can just pop in and pop out at will, best as we can tell."

"You're not dressed like a doctor, not a solder," Dean said. "So you're a hunter? Jesse?" He knew there had been hunters at least since Samuel Colt, but it seemed surreal to run into the ghost of one. He hadn't really talked with a ghost since the girl on the highway and he'd tried to avoid conversation with her. Ever since that vampire Lenore proved to him everything Supernatural wasn't necessarily evil, Dean had been more cautious in his judgment. Mrs. O had never proved dangerous or evil. The man—well, Dean had to admit, for a ghost, he got a good vibe from it.

"Hunter, yes. Jesse, no," the man said. "I'm Judd. That's Jesse." The man pointed behind Dean.

Dean turned. An apparition that matched Dean in height and Judd in looks was behind him. The man gave Dean a slight nod. "Hunter."

"Winchester. Dean Winchester," Dean said turning so he could see them all and none were behind him. They might not be evil, but Dean didn't have any intentions of joining their ranks by being too trusting.

Judd began laughing, "Now that's a proper name for a hunter if ever I heard one."

"So what the hell was that thing?" Dean asked as he pulled out the spent shells and reloaded.

"You ever hear of the Erlking, Winchester?" Judd asked. Judd looked up the stairs as if waiting for its return.

Dean sorted through his recollections of fables and lore as he snapped the shotgun closed. "Yeah, likes to lure kids to their death with offers of lollipops and candy canes."

"Or lusty men with offers of women and wine," Jesse said with a snort.

Dean glared at him. "You the one who hit me?"

Jesse returned the glare. "I could have let him sucker you, Winchester. Took a helluva risk coming up to save your ass. I think a little thanks is due."

Dean gave a sniff then a nod. The ghost had a point. He glanced between the two brothers and decided Jesse was the eldest. "Yeah. Thanks."

Jesse grinned. "Now see, t'weren't so hard. That's all a good hunter needs is an occasional thank you."

Dean laughed softly. How many times had he said that after his own fashion? "So, that's the Erlking, huh?"

"Can't be a king without subjects, now can you?" Judd said. "It's just an erl. Not the Erlking. Just like there's _The_ Reaper and then there are reapers. Same family, just not so high up the food chain."

"So what exactly is an erl?" Dean asked. There was a desk within the circle and Dean set his duffels on it, laid his shotgun beside them, and pulled out some bandages and alcohol for his still bleeding chin.

"A soul eater," Judd said. "It prefers souls of kids, but it'll scavenge anything that crosses its path. A hospital used to be here--"

Dean gave a sharp nod. "Yeah, I know."

"The hospital was easy pickings for it," Judd said. "It was happy to help anyone along so it could chow on the person's soul."

"So how'd you try to kill it?"

"Not 'try', Winchester," Jesse said. "We toasted its little ass. Caught it in a devil's trap and burnt it up good with a magnesium fire."

"Hate to tell you boys, but it seems to still be hanging around," Dean said. His breath hissed as he wiped his split open chin with an alcohol-soaked cloth.

"Who'd a thought a critter like that could have a ghost?" Judd said. He was obviously pissed.

"So that's the ghost of an erl," Dean said.

Maureen folded her arms across her chest. "You're good at stating the obvious, Mr. Winchester. The salt made him disappear, didn't it?"

Her haughty tone struck a nerve with Dean. He resisted the urged to pick up his gun of rock salt and nail her with it just to see her go "poof." Admittedly, sitting in a circle of protection with three ghosts wasn't really doing anything for his nerves in the first place. Instead of the gun, he picked up some fresh gauze to hold over his chin and dug out a butterfly bandage with his free hand. The wound wasn't really bad, it was just bleeding like a mother. "So you must not have burned all if it," he told the two hunters.

"It was ash, Winchester. Magnesium don't leave nothin' behind," Jesse said confidently.

"Well, you obviously missed something," Dean snapped. "Maybe it's got a—what are those things called?--a phylactery or something."

Judd and Jesse passed looks. Jesse shrugged, "Liches, they got a place to keep their souls. Never heard of erls having 'em. They just ain't big enough bad-asses."

"Seems big enough to have done the two of you in. And why the hell are you still here?" Dean turned to Maureen. "You I get. There are, or at least were, ghosts of kids here. You stayed for the kids—"

Her lips pursed and her eyes turned cold. "You give me a bit too much credit, Mr. Winchester. I merely had the misfortune to have died of a bad heart in the theater. I am glad I can offer the children," she lifted her arms and twelve children of various ages materialized around her, "the love they never had in life, but staying had not been my intention." She turned an eye on Judd. "Mr. Emerson and his brothers are the reason I'm still here."

Dean turned to Judd expectantly. Shit. He thought he had three ghosts he was sitting with. Now there were fifteen. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He reminded himself he'd been in the same room as vampires and demons. A few ghost shouldn't put the fear into him. For that matter, in six months demons were all he'd have around him. He grimaced at the thought. Couldn't he get through twenty-four hours without his upcoming fate smacking him in the fucking face?

"We screwed up, okay?" Judd said in defense of the look Dean gave him. "Jesse, he's always been real good at making circles of protection ain't nothing could get through. When he made 'em, he made 'em to last."

Jesse sighed. "I set up a circle around the hospital to keep the hospital safe while Jeb and Judd trapped the erl. Souls make an erl stronger and we needed to make sure it couldn't get any while we were trying to snare it. We think that demonic horse started a fire, maybe kicked over some lanterns, hell, tossed some inside the circle, I don't know."

"We trapped the erl," Judd said, "killed it we thought. With the hospital on fire, Jess, Jeb and I went in to try to save what folk we could." Judd stared at the floor, the distant memories flickering in his eyes like the flames of the fire.

Walking over to him, Jesse laid a consoling hand on his brother's shoulder and picked up the tale. "The place went up like kindling. Never seen a place burn up like that one did. We hardly got into the main ward when it was just too hot and collapsed in on itself. We didn't make it out."

"And your brother Jeb?" Dean asked quietly.

"That bastard horse dragged him out of the circle," Judd said angrily, "and the son of a bitch erl got him."

"I still don't get it," Dean asked. "Why are you still here? Has everyone who's died here stayed here?"

"'Member that circle of protection Jesse made?" Judd gave a bitter laugh. "It kept anything from getting in, all right. Didn't 'spect it to keep us from getting out."

Dean groaned. "Damn." He looked between Jesse and Judd. "So you haven't been able to break it because you're ghosts"

"It was broken," Maureen said. "There was a flood, about fifteen years after I had the theater built."

"Then why didn't everybody go all glowy and move on to where ever the hell they move on to?" Dean asked.

Jesse met Dean's gaze. "Because the erl built its own circle."


End file.
